


An Opening Door

by Tailkinker



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 81,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tailkinker/pseuds/Tailkinker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson encounters a  cleaning slave at PPTH called Greg and becomes intrigued with him. An unlikely friendship forms between the two as Wilson tries to secure a better life for Greg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The truck rolled to a stop, and within seconds the back doors were thrown open.

Greg got to his feet with the other slaves but hung back to let them get out first. Most of the slave handlers were pretty good about letting the old crippled slave take his time getting down from the truck but the new guy was out to impress. He caught Greg with a blow from the crop on his forearm and then another one on his back as he flinched away from the first.

"Get your lazy ass down from that truck, slave. This place is paying for twelve hours labour from you and they're damn well going to get it. We have a reputation to maintain."

Greg jumped down from the tailgate. His bad leg collapsed underneath him and threw him against one of the younger slaves who pushed him off without a word. He managed to steady himself and fall into line with the rest, his leg sending shivers of pain up his spine with every step. It was going to be a long day.

They were herded into the building, a hospital, and down to the basement level. It looked like there had been a fire, the walls were scorched and the floor was filthy with a mixture of ash and water. The smell was overwhelming. The handlers were given masks and gloves to wear, the slaves got nothing.

It was evident that the slaves were there to clean up the mess and they were quickly put to work. Greg wondered why the hospital didn't have its own slaves to do this sort of work. He was currently owned by a labour hire company who rented out their stable of slaves to workplaces that didn't keep their own. This hospital looked large enough that it should have at least a few slaves but he hadn't seen any yet - only his fellow slaves from the company.

He struggled to keep up with the others as he always did. He sometimes wondered why the company kept him on, or indeed had bought him in the first place. Most of the slaves were young and fit, and Greg was neither. Permanently crippled by the infarction in his leg he was a liability at best on most of their work sites and he soon proved one here.

Unable to shovel quickly with his precarious balance he was set to hauling buckets of debris up the stairs and out to a waiting skip. He managed three trips well enough but on the fourth his lameness had him faltering and then tripping over, spilling the contents of his bucket over the floor. He staggered back to his feet and began picking up the mess with his hands but one of the handlers sent him on his way with a slap to the back of his head.

"Get out of here, slave. You're useless. They want someone to go clean the bathrooms, you can go and do that. Try not to trip over anything."

He made his way up another flight of stairs to the first floor and located the necessary equipment in a janitor's closet. Keeping his head down he made his way to the first bathroom he came across and entered, first checking that no-one was using it. The bathroom looked neglected, like it hadn't been cleaned for a while. He knelt down on the cold tiles and set to work. Once the first one was done he went to the next, and then the next.

He was on his way to yet another bathroom when he passed a knot of doctors outside a room. They were talking about a patient, discussing his symptoms. None of them could work out what was wrong with the man - they were all arguing with each other, their voices raised. Greg listened to the conversation with fascination. Some of the words sounded familiar, like old friends. He tried to reach for them in his mind and felt a wave of nausea go through him, and a sharp pain slice through his head. He gasped involuntarily and held one hand up to his temple.

"You boy, what are you doing hanging around?" The doctors were staring at him, their faces angry at the interruption. One of them advanced towards him.

Greg went to his knees and bowed his head.

"This slave is cleaning the bathrooms, sir."

There was a moments silence and Greg waited for a blow to come.

"Get on with it then." Greg heard footsteps as the doctor walked away, back to his colleagues.

He got to his feet quickly and slipped away to find the next bathroom to clean. His stomach still felt unsettled and there was a dull ache in his head. He drove all thought of the doctor's conversation out of his mind as he went about his work.

* * *

Doctor James Wilson threw down his pen and rubbed his tired eyes. The fire in the hospital's basement had led to their closure for two days, and since they'd reopened he'd been struggling to catch up with the backlog.

He got to his feet and made his way out of the office, he needed a break for a few minutes and nature called. Going to the nearest bathroom he swung the door open, only to nearly hit a man who was about to leave.

The man quickly sunk to his knees with his head bowed. At the sight of the leather collar around the man's neck Wilson choked off the quick apology he was about to make. One did not apologize to a slave.

He went over to the urinal and did his business, only realizing when he turned around to wash his hands that the slave was still there, quietly kneeling. Of course, he hadn't been dismissed.

Oh well, he'd leave soon enough once Wilson had left.

Wilson washed his hands and left. As he walked away from the bathroom he heard the door open again and something made him turn around. The slave was leaving, his head still bowed, his eyes on the ground. He left in the opposite direction to Wilson and as he walked away Wilson could see that he was extremely lame. His right leg dragged heavily when he walked, and the slave had one hand on that thigh, as if supporting it. His progress was quicker than one would expect, with such a severe limp, and soon he was out of sight.

Wilson frowned. Surely even a slave would be entitled to some sort of assistive equipment if he was injured, or permanently disabled. He tried to think if he'd ever seen a slave using a cane, or crutches, but could not recall one. Not that he had extensive knowledge of slaves, he'd never had one of his own and his Department didn't rate one. The hospital slaves were used for janitorial work, not for admin. Or what was left of them, the fire had killed several. Luckily they were insured and Cuddy would be able to replace them once the paperwork was sorted out.

He recalled seeing an email that explained the hospital was using a slave hire company in the meantime. The one from the bathroom must be one of those. Why such a business would employ a lame slave was another question.

He took one step in the slave's direction - intending to seek answers to his questions - and then stopped. It was none of his business what arrangements were made for a slave. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He must really be tired if he was letting trivialities like this distract him. He should go home and get some rest. Of course home wasn't all that pleasant a prospect at the moment. He'd split up with Julie, his third wife, and was living alone in a small apartment in Princeton. It was a place to stay but it wasn't really a home.

He headed back to his office, he'd work for a little while longer.

* * *

Greg was finishing up the last in a long string of bathrooms when a mild shock went through him and his collar buzzed. That was the recall signal. He did a final polish with his cloth and then got to his feet. Like always after a hard day's labour both his back and his leg were gripped with pain. There was no time to waste however if he wanted to avoid another shock, and a punishment for being late. He quickly returned his cleaning materials to where he had found them and made his way to the stairway. It would be quicker to travel by elevator, especially given his disability, but that was strictly forbidden. Elevators were for freemen, they could only be used by slaves if they had been given explicit permission. Greg supposed that if he were cleaning a fifty floor building he'd be given permission to use the goods elevator at least, but three flights of stairs were nothing.

He was descending the last flight of stairs carefully, when his right leg began to cramp and spasm. He moaned in pain and bit his lip. Deciding to try and walk it off he put his foot down on the next step.

His leg collapsed underneath him, pitching him off balance and down the rest of the staircase. He landed heavily on the tiled floor below, his head striking the ground.

* * *

Wilson had just left the elevator and was heading for the exit when he heard a cry and then the sound of something hitting the floor. He spun around and saw a man lying at the bottom of the staircase, motionless.

When he got to the man's side and bent to examine him he realised it was the slave from earlier. He must have fallen down the stairs - not surprising considering how lame he was. The slave appeared to be unconscious and he rolled him over carefully. The slave's face was bloody and as Wilson probed the source of the blood he could see he'd cut himself above the eyebrow. Not serious, but bloody as all head wounds tended to be.

There didn't appear to be any more serious injuries but the slave would have to be examined properly. Wilson turned around to call for a guerney, one hand still resting on the slave's body, when he felt a shock go through his body. He yelped and looked back at the slave. His collar was making a buzzing sound and a red light was blinking on it.

"Careful, Doctor Wilson, you don't want to get shocked again." A hand fell on his shoulder, urging him away and Wilson looked up to see one of the hospital's guards - George. "That's a recall signal. Whoever he belongs to is calling him back. The shocks will get stronger if he doesn't respond."

"He _can't_ respond, he's unconscious," Wilson snapped.

The guard shrugged. "Well whoever is calling him doesn't know that. He's not one of ours. He belongs to that slave hire company - Rent-A-Slave. They were called in to help clean the basement. I'll contact them to let them know what's happened. They can come pick him up."

"No, he needs a cervical collar and a back-board before he can be moved. Then he needs to go to the ER for assessment. He may have spinal or head injuries."

"He's just a slave, he'll be fine."

"Even slaves can break their backs. Don't argue with me. Call the ER and get them to send a gurney up, and then call whoever you need to and tell them not to shock him again. He's not going anywhere soon."

The guard looked at him strangely but turned away to comply and Wilson turned his attention back to the slave. Blood was still dripping out of the cut and as Wilson watched the slaves eyes opened. Wilson quickly shook his head, put a finger to his lips, and closed his own eyes. When he opened them again the slave was lying quietly with his eyes firmly closed.

Once the ER team arrived Wilson supervised the precautionary measures and had the slave placed on the gurney.

"We can take it from here, Doctor Wilson."

"No, I'm coming with you." Wilson felt a proprietary interest in his patient now. He'd make sure the man got proper treatment, that was the least he could do for him. "Show me as his doctor."

* * *

"Expanding your practice?"

Wilson looked up from his coffee to see Cuddy standing next to him, and amused smile on her face.

"We generally send all non-emergency slave cases down the road to General. They're better equipped to deal with them."

"He fell down our stairs, I thought the least we could do is make sure he hadn't broken his back before kicking him out."

"Rent-a-Slave won't cover the costs you know, they are saying we treated him without their permission."

"It only happened an hour ago and already you're arguing over costs." Wilson shook his head.

"There _are_ procedures to follow, and books to balance. We can't all be 'heroes in white coats'." Cuddy pointed the file she was holding at Wilson. "Thanks to you we have to stable him for the night - the rest of them have gone back to their home base. Not to mention the cost of all those tests you ordered."

"He's lame, Cuddy. And old, and he was cleaning our bathrooms all day, and then walking down four flights of stairs because he isn't allowed to use the elevator. They shocked him while he was lying on the floor."

"You sound like an abolitionist."

"No, but I _am_ a doctor. You know, first - do no harm. Maybe you remember that one."

"I've heard of it." Cuddy sighed. "I'll take it out of discretionary funds. He can't stay on a general ward but there's a small room I can have him moved to out of the way - we sometimes use it for slaves. The other slaves from that company are coming back tomorrow - he can rest up and then go home with them in the evening. Will that suit you?"

"Yeah," Wilson said. "Thanks, Cuddy."

* * *

Greg cautiously opened his eyes and looked around the room he had been placed in. He was alone, although he could see people moving around outside. Like much of this hospital his room had glass walls, although some blinds partially shielded him from view.

There were restraints around both his wrists, tethering him to the bed The restraints were soft, and padded, and he assumed that normally they would be used on aggressive patients. They would be kinder on his wrists than the metal handcuffs that were usually used for disciplinary measures on slaves.

He'd obeyed the order of the man who had found him on the stairs, and kept his eyes closed for much of the time the medical staff were examining him. They'd roused him to 'consciousness' in the ER by using pain - it had been impossible to keep feigning sleep. They'd asked questions about his fall, and where he was feeling pain and then quickly had him x-rayed, presumably to rule out spinal damage. He'd been stripped of his work clothes and given a hospital gown to wear. Then they'd moved him to this room, fastened him to the bed and left him alone.

He hadn't experienced any further shocks from his collar, although he must have missed recall. He wasn't sure of how long had passed while he was being examined but he thought it must be quite late at night. He was hungry - morning meal was many hours in the past and he'd had no evening meal - but hunger was something he was used to. He'd drunk from the faucets in the bathrooms he'd cleaned so that wasn't a problem at the moment, although he wondered what would happen if he needed to use the facilities here.

He tugged lightly at one wrist but the restraints were strong, and besides, there was little point in trying to free himself - where would he go? In his younger days, in his first weeks as a slave, he'd tried to escape several times. Even with his first owner he'd still made an escape attempt. His owner hadn't been as concerned with scars as the training place had been, he'd collected his first set of lash marks on his back as a consequence for that attempt. Worst had been the extra confinement imposed on him in the weeks afterwards. The small degree of freedom a slave had was valuable; losing any of it hurt more than the lash of a whip.

He felt uneasy, both from being in a hospital, and being in a strange place. His life was one of grinding routine, and the absence of it was strange. He was as helpless here as it was possible for a slave to be - completely at the mercy of these people. Furthermore he wasn't where he was _supposed_ to be - which was back in his dorm in the company building. He wondered what the other slaves would make of his absence.

The door to his room slid open and he tensed. It was the man from the stairs - the one who had held his finger to his lips to tell him to be quiet. As he looked at him now he realised he'd seen him before, while nearly knocking him over in a bathroom. He hadn't seemed angry then, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Sometimes free people stored up their anger for a long time.

"Hi, just wanted to see how you were going?' The man said, hovering near the doorway, he almost looked... _embarrassed?_

Greg didn't know what to answer to that, or what to do. He should kneel - but he couldn't get up. The man had asked him a direct question so it would be permissible, indeed necessary, for him to answer but what should he say? That his head was hurting and his leg was, as was normal, in agony? He hadn't been given any drugs, not even the ibuprofen he was usually handed at the evening meal.

Apparently he had taken too long to answer as the man continued on in a rush. "I'm Doctor Wilson, I found you on the stairs, that was quite a tumble you took. Did they tell you what's happening?"

"No, sir," he answered. That one was simple, no-one had told him anything.

"The people you were with have left for the day. They'll be back tomorrow and you can go home with them in the evening. We just want to keep an eye on you for a few hours. They x-rayed your spine and there's no damage, but you were knocked out, so there's concussion."

He was to spend the whole night and the next day in this bed? Doing nothing? That was a luxury indeed, despite the restraints on his wrists.

"Yes, sir." He said in response when Doctor Wilson seemed to be waiting for some reaction.

Doctor Wilson crossed the room and picked up a folder that was in a holder at the end of his bed. His chart, Greg realised. He ran his eyes over the top page and then flipped through another couple of pages, obviously looking for something. He looked up at Greg and frowned.

"Slave 435689-28-GH ? I can't call you that - what's your name?"

"Greg, sir." He briefly thought his surname but the wave of nausea that instantly engulfed him was enough to stop that line of thought. He didn't have another name that people might use. He was Greg, that was good enough for a slave.

"They haven't given you any medication, Greg? Nothing for the pain?"

Greg wished he hadn't mentioned pain. He'd been trying to dismiss that from his mind.

"No, sir."

The doctor frowned and made a note in the chart.

"Are you in pain?"

Again he wasn't sure what to answer. Any answer could be wrong. But he _was_ in pain and even the slim chance that Doctor Wilson would provide medication was better than nothing.

"Yes, sir."

The Doctor frowned again and rubbed his hand over his face, he seemed exasperated.

"Is that all you can say? Yes, sir, no, sir? Where does it hurt?"

"Sir, my head hurts, and my side. And my leg hurts, of course." Might as well slip that in there as he was asking. "Sir, I usually get some ibuprofen with evening meal." He held his breath, he might have gone too far, this was more than he had talked to a freeman for quite some time.

"What happened to your leg? The chart doesn't mention it." He frowned again, he seemed displeased about something or other, Greg wasn't sure what.

"An infarction sir, in my thigh, seven years ago. Some of the muscle was removed. There was some damage to the nerves."

"And all you get is ibuprofen?" Doctor Wilson made another mark on the chart. "I'm ordering up something stronger for you - some oxycodone. Have you had anything to eat?'

"No, sir. Not since morning meal."

"Damn. Kitchen will be closed. I'll go and get you something, you need to have something to eat with the oxy."

He stared at the doctor, surprised. Maybe he had knocked himself out and he was dreaming this encounter. Doctor Wilson made a little gesture with his hand, somewhat like a wave, and quickly left.

Greg looked down at the bonds on his wrists. They seemed real enough. He closed his eyes and waited. Maybe Doctor Wilson would return, maybe he wouldn't. But just the promise of it, the idea that someone, someone who didn't _own_ him, would care enough to go and get him food and pain killers, was enough.

* * *

Wilson paused outside the slave's... _Greg's_ room long enough to instruct the nurse on duty to have some oxy ready for when he returned. She looked at him oddly and he rolled his eyes impatiently. Was it so odd that a slave should receive adequate medical care? Even from a purely pragmatic point of view surely it made sense that a slave should be cared for well to extended their useful working life.

Greg's chart had been skimpy. It looked like the ER staff had done the bare minimum. There was barely any history - even of his pre-existing injury. Wilson wondered if the lame leg had caused the fall. He'd glimpsed the horrific scar on his thigh while Greg was in the ER and he was sure that the leg was causing him considerable pain. His limp was severe and they type of work he had to do could only aggravate it.

As he made his way back to his office he briefly contemplated having one of his junior doctors go out for some take-out for Greg, maybe some thai, or a pizza. He wasn't sure what slaves ate - probably something filling but basic. He'd probably appreciate a treat. Then he shook his head, if he did that it would be all around the hospital in no time. He might not be up on the finer points of slave handling etiquette but he was pretty sure that would be breaking some of them.

Instead, he made his way to the oncology lounge and dug out the peanut butter and some bread. He'd make Greg a couple of sandwiches. It wasn't a hot meal, but it was better than nothing. On a whim he stopped off at a vending machine on the way back to Greg's room and picked out a couple of chocolate bars. Who didn't like chocolate? He shoved the food into a pocket on his lab coat.

The nurse had the oxy ready for him and he signed for it. A couple of pills would probably knock Greg out for the night, as he wasn't used to it, and a good night's sleep would do him wonders. He looked gaunt and worn down; Wilson had been surprised to find out that he was only a few years younger than Greg - he'd put the slave at closer to sixty than fifty.

Greg looked up at him as he entered his room. There was still some wariness in his expression and he didn't meet Wilson's eyes but he seemed a bit less tense than he had earlier.

"Brought you some food." Wilson said, wheeling over the table and putting the sandwiches on it. "It's not much but the cafeteria is closed."

"Thank you, sir." Greg said but didn't make a move to take the sandwich. Of course, his wrists were restrained.

Wilson sighed and bent over one of the restraints. They were the type used for psych patients and were fairly easy to remove if you could use your hands. He undid the right one, at least he'd be half honouring the hospital policy of keeping any slave patients restrained and Greg could manage a sandwich one handed.

Greg still didn't move to pick up the sandwich and Wilson sighed again. "It's okay, Greg. Go ahead and eat. Then you can take the pills."

Apparently Greg had been waiting for permission as he immediately picked up the sandwich and started devouring it. Before Wilson could blink he'd gone through both sandwiches as if they were the best food he'd had in a long time. Wilson smiled and produced one of the chocolate bars.

Greg's eyes went wide and Wilson figured that chocolate wasn't a major component of his usual diet.

"You've had chocolate before?"

"Yes. I wasn't born a slave." There was a trace of resentment in Greg's otherwise quiet voice. That, and dropping the 'sir' were the first signs of a personality beyond that of a bland, monotone slave. He immediately flinched and dropped his gaze to the thin blanket that covered him.

Wilson felt a surge of irritation, did Greg think he was going to hit him for speaking out of turn? Then he realised he was being unfair. Greg didn't know him, and had no way of knowing how Wilson would react. He backed off and sat down in the chair next to Greg's bed and pulled out the other chocolate bar from his pocket, leaving Greg's on the bed next to him.

He started eating his and after a brief pause Greg picked his own up and removed the wrapper. As he ate he seemed to relax a little, and he looked back up at Wilson.

Wilson was struck by the sharpness of his gaze. His eyes were a striking blue, and although there were age, and pain, lines all around them they were still bright. Greg was sizing him up, he was sure of that. Wondering just what Wilson's motives were. Wilson wondered himself.

When Greg was finished eating Wilson gave him the pills.

"They're stronger than what you're used to. They'll probably make you sleepy. I'll leave orders that you get another dose in the morning."

"Thank you, sir."

It was time for him to go. He'd done all he could for Greg. He made a mental note to come and see him after his own rounds tomorrow and make sure he was showing no further ill effects from his fall. He'd like to keep him in the hospital another day or two, maybe get him some proper treatment for his leg, but he knew there was no chance of that.

He gathered up the dinner debris and dumped it in the trash and nodded to Greg.

"I have to go. You should get some rest."

"Yes, sir."

"Good night, Greg."

There was a hint of a smile on the other man's face when he answered. "Goodnight, Doctor Wilson."


	2. Chapter 2

_He sat in his prison uniform with a row of other newly made slaves. Each was wearing a leather collar around their necks and sporting identical shaved heads. Each held a file in their hands which they were to carry through this process. Every detail of his life was in that file. Everything that had brought him to this point. All the contact details of his family, all his medical details, his resume, his educational history. Everything._

_When his name was called he stood obediently and was ushered into a small office. The lady there smiled at him._

_"Have you been treated well so far, Greg?"_

_He had a smart answer ready on the tip of his tongue, but his collar was sitting uncomfortably around his throat, and he was nervous about what was to come. For once in his life he decided to try and not alienate someone who appeared friendly. He just nodded stiffly at her question._

_"Good. I know this is stressful but we try and make this process as painless as possible, for everyone's sake. If you behave well you'll be treated well. We want happy slaves not miserable ones."_

_He relaxed slightly. This was going better than he had expected._

_"Give me your file, Greg."_

_He handed it over, feeling even better. He had good qualifications. He was sure they could find some use for a slave as well educated as he was that would use his abilities. He'd be out of the damned prison and could start to have some sort of life again._

_The lady perused the file, nodding her head at several places and making sounds of approval. Then she handed it back to him._

_"Take this over to the shredder in the corner, Greg and run it all through."_

_He stared at her and she clicked her tongue in disapproval._

_"That was an order, Greg. You don't want to start disobeying orders just yet, do you? Go and shred the file. Bring back the empty folder."_

_She was still smiling as he destroyed the record of his life, page by page. When he returned to her with the empty folder she took it, removed a form from her desk and told him to kneel at her feet. He hesitated and she frowned at him, tapping a pen on her desk._

_Finally he knelt. If this was the worst thing he had to do as a slave then he would survive. He could always pretend it was some hot bondage scene – he'd always fantasized about those._

_She bent down to him and examined the tag on his collar, writing down a number from it on the top of the sheet._

_"Slave 435689-28-GH. That's your registration number, Greg. I suggest you memorize it as soon as you can." Next to the number she wrote his name - Greg. She slipped the paper inside the folder._

_"That's who you are now, Greg. Forget your old life, forget who you were. This is you now. All that counts is what you do now."_

_He was still kneeling by her feet as she gave him the folder. She patted him on the head in what he thought was supposed to be a friendly fashion. He shied away but she ignored that. "Okay, Greg. You've done well. Get up and go outside and someone will take you along to your first class. Remember, if you behave well you will be treated well. This can be a good life for you, Greg."_

_Everybody lies._

* * *

It was nearly midday before Wilson could get up to Greg's room the next morning. He'd had rounds, and then staff meetings and the usual endless interruptions. As it was, he only had ten minutes before he had to be in a Departmental Heads meeting. He'd just stop in, check Greg was okay and give him the bagel he'd picked up for him. It would be cold now but it would still be better than the usual hospital breakfast.

When he got to the room he stopped dead at the door. It was empty. The bed was neatly made and the room had been scrubbed down. Greg was long gone.

The nurse on duty just shrugged at him. "Somebody came for him this morning apparently - I wasn't here."

"Who? Which doctor signed him out?"

"He wasn't officially signed in to the ward so I don't think anyone signed off on it. It's been a crazy morning." The nurse looked down at her computer screen but evidently that didn't offer any answers. "I can ask around, see if anyone was here when he left."

"No, it's okay." Wilson knew that he wouldn't get any answers, and it was more than it was worth to get the nurses pissed at him. Greg would have been discharged that afternoon anyway. He'd done all he could for him.

He hurried off to his meeting, stopping off first at the nearest men's room to relieve himself.

Greg wasn't there.

* * *

The Departmental Heads meeting dragged on. Wilson had been in charge of Oncology for two years now and he was used to the wrangling between various departments for a larger share of the hospital's budget but he was finding the process particularly tedious and aggravating today. He zoned out during Henderson's spiel about the needs of the surgical department and only tuned in again when he realised that Henderson was complaining about the lack of hospital slaves.

"The operating rooms need to be scrubbed every day, as you well know Doctor Cuddy. Since the fire the remaining slaves have been very slack."

"Five slaves died in that fire," Wilson said, surprised at the anger he was feeling. "The remaining three have the work of eight to do now. And possibly they are upset at the loss of their friends."

He realised that the other doctors around the long table were looking at him oddly. Maybe they hadn't considered the possibility that the slaves might possibly have had friends amongst those who died.

Henderson shook his head. "That's why the hospital employed the services of that slave rental company."

"Those services were to assist in the cleaning up operation." Cuddy interjected smoothly. "They've been focusing their work there. I'll have a word to their supervisor and see if any can be spared for the rest of the hospital, or if we need to rent a few more."

"Or we could just employ some paid cleaners." Wilson suggested, earning him another round of bemused looks.

"The hospital budget is limited, Doctor Wilson. Slaves are the most economical method." Cuddy said, shooting him a look which seemed to suggest he might want to shut up any time now. "Now, onto the question of the proper procedure for..."

When the meeting finally finished Cuddy gave Wilson a look and he lingered until all the others had dispersed.

"Is everything okay, James?" she asked when the room was cleared. "You seem a bit... distracted."

He wondered why everyone suddenly thought that showing concern for some slaves was the sign of impending mental illness.

"Greg was taken away today, without anybody signing off on it."

"Greg?"

He sighed. "The slave from yesterday? He was in a room on the fourth floor. He was supposed to stay until tonight and then go home with the others. Instead of that, somebody came and got him early this morning. As far as I can work out no doctor saw him before then."

"Well, his stay here was sort of... informal. I guess the normal procedures weren't followed because of that."

Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn't really blame Cuddy for being casual about this, it wasn't something he'd thought about much until the last couple of days.

"Look, you established the clinic so that nobody was excluded from medical help because they couldn't afford it. And you make sure all the doctors spend time there. So why should we suddenly stop caring when it comes to slaves? Greg was injured in our hospital, working for us. He spent the night in a hospital bed. Surely we have some sort of duty of care to him?"

Cuddy's temper flared up. "I do everything I can to help those who can't help themselves. _This hospital_ does everything it can. I wrote off all those tests you ordered for this damned slave of yours - I got him a bed for the night. I'm sorry I wasn't there to hold his hand this morning, maybe you could have been there, Doctor Wilson, if it meant so much to you."

"Cuddy, I -"

"I can't fix the world, Wilson. I have a Board to answer to, donors to keep happy and a whole bunch of doctors who all want to go off on their own quixotic little quests."

"I know, I know. I just... I need to know that he's okay. You haven't seen him, Cuddy. He's disabled, and in pain and nobody seems to give a damn about him."

Cuddy threw up her hands in exasperation. "Fine. I need to talk to their supervisor anyway. I'll get him to send the slave-"

"Greg."

"- _Greg_ to the one of the exam rooms in the clinic. Will that suit you?"

"Yes. Thanks, Cuddy." Wilson nodded and headed for the door.

"James," Cuddy said as he was almost out of the room and he looked back. "Be careful. Don't get too involved. He's a slave - you can only help so much."

"Just a quick exam and then that's it." Wilson promised. He hurried off, he wanted to pick up a couple of things before he saw Greg again.

* * *

Greg wasn't surprised when he didn't see Doctor Wilson again in the morning. He'd had a good sleep, the best sleep he'd had in many years. The pain in his leg hadn't woken him once during the night like it usually did, and even his hands being restrained hadn't bothered him. It was way past his normal waking time when he did wake up. He realised immediately that he needed to go to the bathroom, and that he had no way of getting there.

He was wondering if it would be better to wet the bed or call out for a nurse when one of the slave handlers from his company walked into his room.

The woman was one of the better handlers - she was fairly even tempered and had a reputation for being fair amongst the slaves - but he still tensed. He wasn't where he should be, or doing what he should be, two prime misdemeanours for a slave.

"Greg, you look fit. It's time to go. We'll put you on light duties today," she said as she unfastened his shackles.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, they liked to hear acknowledgment of their orders. "Ma'am, I need to use the bathroom."

There was a small bathroom in the corner of this room and she nodded to it. "Be quick."

He limped over to it as quickly as he could, leaving the door open. She watched him as he peed and then washed his hands. He took a quick glance at her and then splashed some water on his face. She made no verbal protest but tapped her crop against her side impatiently and he quickly straightened and wiped his face dry.

His work clothes from yesterday had been dumped in a corner of the room and he stripped off his hospital gown and changed into them. He caught a glimpse of an assortment of bruises from the fall - he'd be sore today.

The handler took him back down to the basement, now much improved from the day before, and gave him a can of paint and some cleaning supplies.

"Clean the wall first, and then paint it. Did they feed you this morning?"

"No, ma'am."

She reached into a pocket of her uniform and pulled out a food bar. They were emergency supplies for the slaves - when they couldn't get back to the company for a proper meal. They were tasteless but better than nothing.

"Five minutes, then I want to see you working."

"Yes, ma'am," he said smartly.

"Don't fall down any more stairs today. It's very unprofessional."

"No, ma'am," he said. As she walked away he reflected that it wasn't like he _meant_ to fall down any stairs yesterday. He wondered how she would manage with a leg like his and while he ate his dry food bar he entertained himself with trying to imagine it.

* * *

When Wilson entered the clinic exam room he was surprised to see Greg kneeling by the exam table, rather than sitting on it. A woman he didn't recognise was sitting in a chair by the desk. A quick glance revealed that she was wearing a shirt with the logo of Rent-A-Slave on it.

"You wanted to see the slave?" The woman said, not bothering with introductions.

"I need to examine him after his fall yesterday."

The woman nodded. "Greg, stand up and strip off so the doctor can examine you."

Wilson started to protest that it wasn't necessary but Greg was already stripping off his worn clothing. He was wearing a brown coverall with the company logo on it, and nothing but a pair of old boxer shorts underneath. When he was completely stripped he stood quietly by the exam table with his head bent.

"I like to conduct my exams in private," Wilson said.

"I need to stay with the slave."

"And I need you to leave." Wilson folded his arms and stared the woman down. Finally she sighed.

"Very well. I'll be outside. Please don't take too long, Doctor. There's a lot of work to do here and we need Greg."

Wilson restrained himself from answering her - no need to unnecessarily antagonise the woman who obviously had power over Greg - and waited until she had closed the door behind her before addressing Greg.

"I'm sorry I didn't get back to you this morning. I came but you had already gone."

"I had to go, Doctor Wilson." Greg said, his head coming up. There was a trace of fear in his eyes.

"I know that, Greg." Wilson thought about telling Greg to get dressed again, but it would be easier to get a proper assessment for any injuries while he was naked, and he didn't seem bothered by his nudity. He reached into the pocket of his labcoat and produced the chocolate bar he'd picked up on the way here. This time Greg took it readily. Wilson wondered if he'd eaten at all. Maybe he should have brought that bagel along after all, he'd pitched it in the trash when he couldn't give it to Greg that morning.

While Greg ate his chocolate Wilson visually assessed him. He had some bruising around his ribcage and along his side. Wilson could see several old scars on his body, besides the horrendous scar on his thigh. He itched to examine that thigh properly but that was beyond the scope of this appointment. Greg was lean, without being emaciated, and was reasonably well muscled.

"Sit up on the table, Greg."

When Greg was sitting he picked up his stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs. Both were sound. His blood pressure proved to be good, and Wilson took a blood draw to examine later - although what he could do if the results showed Greg needed further follow up he didn't know. Greg tensed during the blood draw but otherwise didn't seem concerned by the medical procedures. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room. Wilson got the feeling he was taking in every detail.

On a trip to a cabinet on the other side of the room he passed behind Greg and paused at the sight of his back. There were faded lash marks going from one side to the other. Greg had been soundly whipped sometime in the past. Greg must have heard him pause as he turned his head around to look at him, suddenly wary.

"It's okay," Wilson smiled reassuringly. "Just getting you some pain killers. Have you had any today?"

"No, sir."

Wilson passed him a couple of Tylenol 3 - the best he could do without giving him narcotics.

"Take those, they should help a bit. I'll have a word to the..." he stopped as he had no idea of the correct term to describe the lady who had been with him, "... to her when she comes back in. You should have something, you have to be in a fair amount of pain from the look of that bruising."

Greg didn't say anything, just taking the pills and the glass of water Wilson offered him.

"I suppose they've put you right back to work? I didn't see you in the bathrooms." Wilson hadn't checked all of them of course, just every one he had passed since this morning.

"I'm a painter today, sir." Greg responded and Wilson thought he could detect a trace of dry humour in the quiet words. "I'm painting a wall in the basement."

Wilson wondered if painting was any easier than cleaning bathrooms - he had precious little experience with either.

He checked Greg's reflexes and then his pupil reaction. Both seemed normal.

"I just want to feel your head, Greg." He'd been checked out for skull injuries yesterday but given the apparent attitude of some of the staff to treating a slave Wilson wanted to do it himself. He waited for Greg's assent but Greg was silent.

"Is that okay, Greg?"

Greg looked at him with wide, startled, eyes and Wilson realised that he didn't realise that Wilson had been waiting for him to consent. Nobody had to ask if they could touch a slave.

"Yes," he finally said.

Wilson carefully ran his head over Greg's skull. His hair was cropped short and was thinning on top. Greg tensed below his hands and Wilson kept his tough light. He couldn't feel any bumps and finally he stepped back.

"That seems fine. You were lucky, Greg - you could have been seriously hurt."

Greg looked down at his naked body, and at the scar on his leg. Maybe he didn't feel that lucky after all.

Finally, Wilson couldn't delay any longer and he opened the door to re-admit Greg's guard. She came in and surveyed him. He hadn't gotten dressed again - because Wilson hadn't told him to, and was still sitting on the exam table.

"Get dressed and wait for me outside the door," the woman said to him. Greg quickly slid off the table, pulled up his clothes and left the room, his head again bowed.

"Well, doctor?"

"He doesn't seem to have been badly hurt. He has a lot of bruising. He'll need some pain killers."

"We have a doctor on staff - he'll examine the slave tonight and prescribe the appropriate medication. Thank you for your concern."

"He could do with not working for the rest of the day," Wilson said, "that was a hard fall. And he shouldn't be doing physical labour with that disability anyway. The man can barely walk."

"Doctor, Greg is a slave for hire. If the company can't get work out of him they'll sell him. Do you think anyone would want to be buy him in his condition?"

Wilson wasn't sure what happened to slaves who couldn't be sold but he was pretty sure it wouldn't be good.

"Thank you for your concern, Doctor, but we'll take it from here," she said and left. Wilson went to the door in time to see Greg get up from a kneeling position and follow her, a half step behind, struggling to keep up. He didn't look back.

Wilson cleaned up the room and then went straight to Cuddy's office. She was in a meeting with someone and Wilson could just make out the Rent-A-Slave logo on his shirt - probably the supervisor she was going to meet that afternoon. Good.

He went in without knocking and she frowned at him.

"I am in a meeting, Doctor Wilson, perhaps you could come back -"

He ignored her and looked at the man.

"I want to buy one of your slaves."


	3. Chapter 3

Cuddy stared at him and then got up, quickly coming around the desk to hustle him out of the room, while making apologies to her guest. Taking Wilson by the arm she practically dragged him out of the office and closed the door behind them.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"No, I just want to -"

"This isn't a stray dog, or a homeless cat! You're talking about buying a slave!"

"People do," Wilson pointed out. "This hospital even has some."

"We have them because we need them. Not because we feel sorry for them because they're lame!"

"Maybe I need a slave too."

She gave him an exasperated look. "You  _don't_  need a slave. I know you, James. You see someone in distress and you want to make it better. You want to take care of them."

"I don't want to -"

"If you don't want to take care of him what do you want with him? To screw him? It's illegal to buy a slave just for that purpose." Incidental use was okay of course, but sex slaves were theoretically against the law. Of course, it wasn't a law that got much exercise. If Wilson wanted the slave for that purpose there wasn't much that would stop him.

"No! I don't want him for that. I just want -"

"- to help him." Cuddy finished for him, throwing her arms up in the air. "I should have seen this coming."

"This isn't anything to do with you. I can contact their company directly and it won't affect my work here. He can keep the apartment straight for me, do the cooking, things like that." Wilson eyed her stubbornly. "Just give that guy my card and get him to contact me. I doubt that they really want a slave like Greg on their books - he can barely walk let alone work twelve hours a day. I should be able to get him cheap."

"I wouldn't bet on that, after you came bursting in like that. It's like you don't know the first thing about negotiation." Cuddy sighed. "Look, I'll have a word with him. We're going to have to use them for a while longer than we thought originally - it's a decent sized contract for them, I'm sure I can leverage something for you. Just - think about this very carefully, Wilson. Owning a slave isn't like owning a car. There's a lot goes into it. I suggest you go and check and see what the requirements are - it's a bit more complicated than I think you imagine. A cat or a dog would be much easier."

"I don't want a pet, Cuddy. I just want to help Greg. He needs it."

* * *

Wilson spent the afternoon researching Slave laws and regulations. It turned out that buying and keeping a slave was a lot more involved than he'd realised. He had to have a license (with a nice fee payable to the state of New Jersey of course), and to get the license he had to attend classes (another nice fee), and he had to have the premises where he was going to keep the slave inspected (another fee). There were a slew of regulations about bed size, and minimum feeding requirements, and other such matters. He had to obtain medical insurance for the slave, and insurance to cover any damage the slave might do to any free person, or any free person's property. It wasn't as simple as writing out a check and taking Greg home with him.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly as he closed down his web browser. It was just paperwork, and money, and a bit of time. He could do it. He'd made his way through the medical education system, he could buy a slave. He'd buy Greg, and look after him - get him some proper medical attention, some better clothes, make sure he had enough to eat, things like that. And Greg could do some light housework for him - it would be nice to have someone else do it, and to have some company at night. Then, when Greg was doing better, Wilson would probably free him. He'd help him get some sort of job, though that might not be easy, given his disability and the status he would have of being an ex-slave... He pushed that worry aside for now - that was a long way down the track. At the worst he'd just keep Greg as a slave - he'd have a far better life with Wilson then he did now.

He started when there was a perfunctory knock on the door and Cuddy entered.

"Okay - Rent-a-Slave has agreed to sell Greg to you, for ten thousand dollars."

It was both a large amount of money, and a trivially small one to buy a human being. His car had cost three times that amount. Cuddy had come through for him.

"Subject to the full disclosure documents, of course. They're going to get them sent straight to you. You can pull out any time up to giving them the check. And of course, you'll have to show that you've got all your paperwork in order before they'll release him to you."

"I didn't realise there was so much to it," Wilson admitted.

Cuddy nodded. "I looked into it last year - I have a part time handyman, and a cleaner, and I thought it might be easier... But it turned out not to be. Even though we have slaves at the hospital, it's different buying one for your own personal use. It's not just all the red tape, and the expense, it's just the thought of owning another human being. I decided it wasn't something I wanted to do."

"I won't really be  _owning_  him, I won't think of it like that." Wilson was uncomfortable with the idea himself. He didn't want to own Greg, he just wanted to make his life better. "I can't just leave him where he is, not now that I've met him. He's broken, Cuddy. You can see it - he's worn down. He's an intelligent human being, and he's living in pain and nobody is doing anything about it."

"Insurance is going to be a killer for him," Cuddy pointed out. "If his condition is as bad as you say. You can put him on your own insurance through the hospital but you'll still have to pay. Good thing you have no kids - he's going to keep you poor."

Wilson grimaced at her mention of him being childless. It wasn't really by choice. He'd been married, and divorced, three times. One of the marriages hadn't lasted long enough for children to be on the horizon, the other two wives hadn't been in a hurry - and again the marriage had been over before they'd gotten around to it. His parents looked at him with disappointment every time they saw him, and Wilson himself couldn't help but be saddened that he didn't have anyone to share his life with.

He'd even dated Cuddy a couple of times - she wanted a child and he'd volunteered to be a sperm donor, or even something more - but she'd miscarried twice, and had stopped trying. He'd brought her flowers, she'd hugged him, and they had mutually decided to go back to just being friends.

"I'll have to meet this slave of yours once you have him. He must be very special if you're going to all this trouble for him."

"I'll have a dinner party," Wilson joked.

"Well, at least he should be able to clear up after it." Cuddy put a business card down on his desk. "That's the guy to talk to at Rent-A-Slave once you have the paperwork sorted. Good luck."

* * *

Greg spent the rest of the afternoon painting the basement walls. He was mostly left alone to get on with it and he put in just enough effort to avoid being disciplined. He was still sore from his fall, and the painkillers Doctor Wilson had given him had started wearing off in the late afternoon. It was nothing he couldn't handle of course, he'd worked through much worse pain, but it was still uncomfortable.

He didn't know what to make of Doctor Wilson. Since he'd become a slave he'd had little contact with free people who weren't his owners. He'd certainly hadn't met anyone like the doctor. Doctor Wilson appeared to be trying to be friendly towards Greg - bringing him food and medication, and arranging the medical exam. Greg wasn't sure why he was acting that way, or what the doctor wanted in exchange. Greg found himself intrigued by the puzzle.

By the time recall was sounded - Greg's collar buzzing and giving him a mild shock even though the slave handler was less than a few feet from him at the time - he was too tired to do anything but clean his work area up and line up with the other slaves. They were taken quickly to the truck and loaded in. Some of the slaves talked in low tones to each other but Greg sat in silence, his head bowed.

Once the truck had arrived back at the building the company used to house its slaves, the usual evening routine followed. The slaves all got out of the truck, stripped and then lined up in the yard to be checked for contraband. Any slave who took anything from a worksite was severely punished so theft was very rare. Greg had learnt how to conceal small things in his mouth but mostly there was little worth taking that was that size - only drugs if he could ever get his hands on them. He'd risk a great deal for painkillers. Unfortunately the hospital had theirs locked up tight and even with his impromptu overnight stay he hadn't managed to score any except for the ones Doctor Wilson had given him.

As they cleared inspection they were allowed to enter the main building for showers and evening meal, and then cleaning of the facilities. After that they were free to do whatever they wanted until lockup time. Greg was heading towards his bunk when a handler called him out.

"Greg - here."

He was walked down to the office section of the large building - where the slaves were forbidden to go by themselves - and taken to the medical room. Greg had been here before of course, for treatment of minor injuries. He wondered if this was something to do with his medical exam today. He'd never had so much attention for a simple fall before.

"Strip off," the handler said and he slipped out of the shorts and t-shirt all the slaves wore in the evening. "Lie down on the exam table."

He did and watched as the manacles on the side were fastened over his wrists and ankles. The handler left without another word.

He was there for a few minutes before the doctor came in. The man was old, and Greg had concluded that he couldn't find a job anywhere else, probably through sheer incompetence. He appeared to have nothing but contempt for the slaves and the contrast to Doctor Wilson couldn't be stronger.

He didn't talk to Greg except to issue brief commands. He seemed mostly intent on a printed form he had on the clipboard he carried. Greg was subject to a brusque examination, with each vital statistic being noted on the form. His blood pressure and pulse were taken, and his reflexes tested. He was released from the manacles to be weighed and have his height taken and then he was told to stand still while the doctor walked around him, making marks on the form. The doctor took note of the bruising to his upper body, his fingers pinching at the skin. Greg squirmed away from the pain and received a quick, hard, slap to his naked ass.

"I told you to stand still, slave. How did you get all this bruising?"

"I fell down some stairs, sir."

"Clumsy. I've told them that you're not worth putting out in the field. I can't imagine why anyone wants to buy you."

"Buy me, sir?" Greg said, and then quickly fell silent. It wasn't his place to ask questions like that.

The doctor laughed. "They'll soon change their mind when they see this report. I'm not prettying it up. The law says that the buyer is entitled to full disclosure of a slave's medical condition. Ashworth isn't going to like it, but it's my neck on the line - not his."

Greg didn't say anything to that - judging that the doctor was talking to himself, not seeking the opinion of a slave. The doctor continued his examination - including a long period of probing at the surgical scar on Greg's thigh which had him gritting his teeth. He hated anyone touching the scar, and the doctor's rough touch was sending waves of pain through his thigh. Doctor Wilson had refrained from touching it, although he'd obviously noticed it.

Finally the doctor snapped on a pair of gloves.

"Spread your legs, bend over and grab your ankles," he ordered. Greg did so, although he could barely reach his calf on the right side, his leg wouldn't straighten and he wobbled precariously in that position. He was roughly entered with a gloved finger and his prostrate probed - presumably to check for any signs of inflammation. Mercifully the doctor was quick about his task and he was given permission to straighten up.

A specimen jar was produced and thrust into his hand.

"Piss in that. Be careful - I don't want a mess all over the floor."

He managed it under the doctor's scrutiny and handed the jar back. It was labelled and sealed - presumably to be sent away somewhere for testing.

"Put your clothes back on and wait outside for the guard." The doctor left the room without another word.

He got back to his dorm just before lockup. Slipping out of his clothes once again he folded them neatly and stowed them under his pillow and got into bed. A guard called bed check and he answered when his turn came. The lights were dimmed and the heavy door to the dorm swung shut and was locked for the night. Around him he could hear the sounds of nineteen other slaves settling down to sleep - just as he had every day for however long he had been here.

He thought about what the doctor had let slip. Someone wanted to buy him. For what purpose? The doctor had been right, it would be foolish to buy a slave like him for any sort of work. He'd been told many times that he had been fortunate that this company had purchased him - there were rumours about places slaves went when they were no longer useful. None of the rumours were good.

Maybe that had been the reason for Doctor Wilson's interest in him. Maybe he knew a company who had need of a slave like Greg. Maybe it was the hospital itself. Greg knew that he had done a good job in cleaning the bathrooms, and the hospital had lost some slaves in the fire - hence why they were employing Rent-A-Slave. Again, though, why would they want a crippled, old, slave rather than a young one? Because he was cheap? He'd have to be cheap.

Or maybe - and this was a chilling thought - the hospital wanted to buy him to use in experimental work. That was one of the rumours that went around about slaves who couldn't work, that they were sold to be used in medical research. Maybe after his fall and time off work the company had decided he was no longer worth his keep and they were negotiating with the hospital. That would explain the two medical exams he'd been subjected to today.

It wasn't that Greg feared dying - most days he'd welcome it - but he didn't want to die as an experimental animal. He thought about Doctor Wilson again, and the kindness he'd shown, he didn't think he would agree to Greg being used like that but it might not be in his control.

He resolved that if it came to that, if that was what he was destined for, he'd fight. He'd do everything he could to make sure his death was swift.

With that thought he sank into an exhausted sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson didn't have much time to think about Greg for the next couple of days. He'd set the paperwork in motion for his license and received a class schedule. It turned out he could do the 'Slave Ownership 101' course through a private agency in one intensive weekend session. He'd tentatively made a booking for that and spent a few minutes contemplating the current arrangement of his apartment to see if it would qualify according to regulations. He have to get a lock for the guest bedroom - one which locked from the outside. He was required to have a space to 'secure the slave' if necessary. There was a window in that room so he'd need to get bars for the windows as well. Then there was clothing, and food. Greg could eat what he ate, but Wilson's clothing wouldn't fit him. He didn't know whether Greg possessed any clothing apart from the company uniform Wilson had seen him wearing but it seemed doubtful that he'd have much.

His time had mostly been taken up with the arrival of a fresh batch of interns in his department - all of whom needed close supervision, and his usual large patient load. Oncology was a difficult field - the treatment for his patient's illnesses demanded as much attention as the illnesses themselves. Then there were the children, it was always difficult to watch them suffer, and know that you were causing a great deal of that yourself. On top of that he'd had a patient from the free clinic admitted with a series of unusual symptoms and was struggling to find a diagnosis for him. He had a feeling the answer was just beyond his grasp, eluding him. He was passing the poor man from one department to another in the hopes of finding someone who might know what was causing his rapid deterioration. What was needed, he thought, was an inter-disciplinarian - someone who could see the big picture beyond just their specialty. Somebody who could think outside the box.

It was while he was simultaneously doing rounds with the interns and mulling over the latest results on the patient that he ran into Greg again. Passing a bathroom on the fourth floor he caught a glimpse of his limping gait as he entered the bathroom, cleaning supplies in hand. He almost called out his name but then, glancing at the interns, he restrained himself.

"Go on to the paediatric ward - I'll catch up," he said to his entourage. "Watch out for the Hopkins kid - he's into magic tricks." The youngsters all nodded solemnly and he pushed open the bathroom door.

Greg was in there, already on his knees, scrubbing out the urinal. He looked around when Wilson entered and then quickly back down to his work.

"Hi, Greg," Wilson said cheerfully. It was good to see that Greg looked reasonably well.

"Good morning, sir." Greg stopped scrubbing and put his hands behind his back, bowing his head.

"How are the bruises?"

Greg glanced up at him, a trace of surprise on his otherwise blank face. Maybe he thought Wilson had forgotten about his fall.

"I bet they're a nice colour now," Wilson said, trying to put Greg at ease. He wished Greg would relax a little bit around him. "Don't worry - that means they're healing."

"Yes, sir."

Wilson sighed. He wondered if he should tell Greg he was contemplating buying him. Maybe that would give him some hope for the future. On the other hand if the whole thing fell through for any reason then he'd be disappointed. Probably best not to say anything. He felt his pockets but he didn't have anything to give Greg and he found himself at a loss to what else to say.

Greg kept kneeling silently, waiting for Wilson to dismiss him back to his work. Wilson figured he might as well use the urinal now he was in here, but he felt awkward doing it in the one Greg had been cleaning. He moved over to the next one and unzipped.

"Sir, should I continue cleaning?" Greg asked. There was a trace of _something_ in his voice but Wilson wasn't sure what it was.

"Er... yes, okay - if you want to," Wilson said. Conversations in bathrooms with slaves were weird he decided.

Greg immediately picked up his scrubbing brush and went back to work, appearing to ignore Wilson's presence completely. Wilson shook his head and zipped himself back up. It would be good when he'd got Greg out of here. They'd be able to have a proper conversation - he was sure that Greg must have more to say than just 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir'.

He watched the slave for a couple of minutes. Greg was efficient, and thorough, with his cleaning - every motion was practised and purposeful. Kneeling like that must hurt him but he made no complaint.

"How long have you been a slave, Greg?"

Greg immediately stopped his cleaning again and knelt up on his heels. That must be some sort of proper slave etiquette or something. Every time Wilson asked a question Greg was going to have to stop what he was doing and answer. Greg probably had an assigned amount of work to do that morning - every stop was delaying him reaching his goal. But he couldn't - presumably - tell Wilson to piss off and leave him alone.

"I am ... not certain, sir. I think it could be nearly twenty years?"

Wilson shook his head, he couldn't begin to imagine what those years must have been like for him - especially since his injury. Wilson had never given much thought to slaves before, they were around, they served a purpose but no-one he had ever known had owned one, and he'd never known anyone who became one - either voluntarily or involuntarily. The threat was always there of course, when he was a child, and again when he was in medical school with heavy loans hanging over him, but it was a distant threat. Something that happened to other people.

Greg must not have been a bankruptcy case - he would have long since been earned out his contract and been released.

"What were you before you were a slave?"

Greg looked startled for a moment, his mouth opening as if to answer. Suddenly he put a hand on one temple, as if he had a headache.

"Greg? Are you okay?" Greg had paled and Wilson could see he was nauseous. He bent over him, concerned, placing a hand on Greg's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't..." Greg said, swaying where he was kneeling.

Wilson took hold of Greg's chin, trying to turn his head so he could check his pupils.

The door to the bathroom opened abruptly, startling Wilson who still had his hands on Greg. It was Henderson - the Surgical Department head. Henderson stared at them and Wilson quickly let Greg go.

"Problem with this slave, Wilson?"

"He's not feeling well," Wilson replied. He glanced at Greg. With Henderson coming in the slave seemed to have relaxed a bit. He was still pale but didn't look like he was going to be immediately sick.

Henderson looked at Greg. "He's probably malingering. All the slaves Cuddy is getting for us are useless. Don't indulge him, Wilson. We're paying that company enough for their slaves - they can work hard when they're here. I'm putting in a complaint to Cuddy."

He crossed to the urinal Greg had been cleaning and relieved himself. He went to wash his hands and then tossed a remark over his shoulder. "Well, slave, you going to sit around all day or clean that thing?"

"Sorry, sir," Greg said and picked up his scrubbing brush again.

"And make sure you clean your hands well after each bathroom you do - we don't need you spreading any infections around."

"No, sir."

Greg bent over his task. He seemed over whatever was affecting him earlier. Wilson would have liked to examine him again but Henderson was impatiently holding the door open for him. With a last concerned look at Greg, Wilson left the bathroom.

* * *

Greg stayed scrubbing until both men had left the bathroom. Then, relieved to be alone momentarily, he stopped for a moment. He rubbed at one temple, the sudden headache had receded but his head was still throbbing. He'd wanted to answer Doctor Wilson - to tell him who he used to be - but he'd felt ill as soon as he thought about it. He always did. He knew, but the knowledge was out of his grasp and behind that wall of pain that came up. Over the years he'd stopped trying to reach for that knowledge. It was easier to live in the endless moment rather than remember he hadn't always been like this. One day he must have been free. He knew things that he wouldn't have if he had always been a slave. Somehow he had lost his freedom a long time ago. Whatever he had done must have been terrible, to deserve punishment like this.

He sighed, bending back to his work. His thoughts remained on Doctor Wilson. He seemed friendly, and harmless, but Greg had been fooled before by people like that. The doctor must want something to keep contacting Greg like this - but Greg couldn't work out what it was. He'd heard no more about being purchased, although that wasn't surprising. His previous experience of being bought was that of being handed off to a new owner with no prior warning. The slave was the last person informed when they were changing hands.

He stopped again and rubbed at his thigh. He couldn't settle into his work. Normally he could just ignore the pain and carry on but being in this hospital was unsettling him. He didn't know why. He would be glad to move on to the next assignment, if he wasn't sold first. The best way to survive as a slave was to bury all emotion, and to just live moment to moment. Thinking about the past, or the future, was to lose that precious equilibrium. And that could be dangerous.

He closed his eyes and permitted himself a few seconds of rest, of trying to regain his calm. When he opened them again he felt blank - just like he should.

He took up the scrubber again and went back to work.

* * *

Cuddy listened to Henderson with only half an ear. The man was an excellent surgeon, and ran his department well, but he was also the biggest whiner on staff. He was still complaining about the cleaning of the ORs, something Cuddy had thought was settled with the assigning of extra slaves to deal with it. Of course it was important, but Cuddy had the feeling that Henderson would complain if a horde of two hundred slaves were spending twenty four hours a day scrubbing the place on their hands and knees with toothbrushes.

"...one of the slaves is even lame. I've seen him around cleaning the bathrooms on the fourth floor. They're sending us their defective slaves. You really need to keep on top of that, Doctor Cuddy. They'll take advantage of you if they can."

Cuddy could well guess who the 'defective' slave was. The mysterious Greg who Wilson was so taken with.

"The 'defective' one was thrown in by Rent-a-Slave as part of a package deal - he's not costing us anything."

"He may not be costing money, but he's a disruption. Doctor Wilson was having to deal with him in a bathroom. The slave was complaining that he was sick. The head of Oncology should not have to play nursemaid to a slave, Doctor Cuddy!"

Damn, she needed to have another word with Wilson. He really needed to stop hanging around Greg, at least until he'd gone through with this damned quixotic quest to buy himself a slave. She liked Wilson, he'd been a good friend to her and even something more once, but he did have a tendency to try and help everyone he met. She'd been worried about him since he left Julie, his third wife. He'd become depressed, and seemed unable to move on with his life - even living in a hotel for several months. At her urging he'd seen a psychiatrist, and was now doing better but she wasn't sure that focusing on a slave as the person he needed to 'help' was a step forward for him. Although it was better than seeking out yet another Mrs Wilson she supposed - she was running out of ideas for wedding gifts.

She got rid of Henderson and made her way up to Wilson's office. He was sitting at his desk perusing the contents of a large yellow envelope.

"This is the full disclosure report on Greg," he said, waving sheets of paper at her. He picked up one of them, which had a crude outline of a male body on it, front and back. She could see it was covered with markings.

"They included this. It has the location of every major scar on the man's body. They call it a 'defect report'."

She examined it - it reminded her of the reports she received on rental cars, with every ding and dent itemised. Greg apparently had a lot of dings and dents.

"It looks like they bungled his infarction. It took over three days to diagnose muscle death in his thigh. At first they thought he was malingering! He must have been in agony. They operated, finally, but it was too late for a full recovery."

"I wonder why they didn't amputate the leg."

"Probably thought it would harm his value too much. Or maybe the insurance doesn't cover artificial limbs - and he'd be useless as a one legged slave."

"He must be close to useless now, with the extent of muscle damage this report indicates." Cuddy scrutinised the old surgical report - it didn't make pretty reading. "For the kind of work he does anyway."

"You'd be surprised - he seems to manage pretty well."

"Except for when he's falling down our staircase."

"I assume he doesn't make a habit of that." Wilson returned to his scrutiny of the papers. "There's no details here about his former life. It starts from his first day of slave training."

Cuddy put the defect report back down on Wilson's desk. She forbore from mentioning that Wilson was supposed to be working, not reading up on a future purchase - Wilson put enough hours in for two doctors.

"Henderson was in my office whining about you and Greg."

That got Wilson's attention. "Me and Greg? Oh - in the bathroom." He frowned. "I just ran into Greg there, had a few words with him. I asked him what he was before he was a slave and I swear just the question seemed to make him sick. I think it gave him a headache, and he was definitely nauseous."

Cuddy nodded. "A slave handler told me once that they condition slaves not to think about their former lives. Not all slaves - just the ones who resist training."

Wilson flicked through the papers. "That would fit. They had Greg marked down as a category one slave in his first position - difficult to handle and requiring strict discipline. He's apparently considered a six now though." He pulled out another piece of paper from the file. "He's a criminal - sentenced to life as a slave, with a twenty five years minimum. He still has six years to go before he can even apply to be freed."

"At least you'll get your money's worth then."

"Not funny. I was going to free him after a year or so - enough time to get him ready for the real world. This makes it a long term commitment."

Cuddy wondered just how long someone who had been a slave for twenty years would require to adapt to being free and how such a former slave would survive. She suspected that Wilson wasn't seeing all the possible problems. She'd had some contact with the hospital's slaves, and they were without exception totally unfit for being anything but a slave. Wilson might have some Pygmalion type dream of rehabilitating Greg and turning him into a useful member of society but Cuddy could see it turning out very badly indeed for him.

"Wilson, are you sure about this? The man must have been a violent criminal to get a sentence that long, and he was classified as a difficult slave. You've got no experience in dealing with either one."

"Whatever Greg used to be, he's not that man now. He's beaten down, Cuddy. He can barely get a few words out when I ask him a question. All I want to do is get him out of there, get him some pain meds, and make his life a little easier. That can't be too difficult. Even I should be able to manage that."

There was an edge of bitterness in his voice with the last few words. Cuddy knew that his failure to build lasting relationships had hurt him deeply. She just hoped he wasn't using this as some sort of substitute.

Their conversation was interrupted by Wilson's phone ringing. It was bad news about a patient of his, one that Wilson had mentioned in passing to Cuddy a few days ago. None of the doctors in the hospital had been able to diagnose him and the man had just died of liver failure.

"I guess we'll find out what it was at the autopsy," Wilson said, standing up and putting on his labcoat. "Excuse me, I have to go and speak to the family."

He paused with his hand on the door. "We have to do better than this, Cuddy. We can't let people die just because we don't know what's wrong with them."

Wilson left and she muttered to herself. "Yes, okay. Stop people dying, I'll get right onto that."


	5. Chapter 5

_He was failing at Slave Training 101. Nobody had told him_ _that in so many words, but he knew. Where his classmates got little nods of approval, and the occasional treat, he got punishments and disapproval._

_He wasn't really surprised. Although he'd chosen this option over spending the rest of his life in a prison hell-hole, he didn't relish the thought of serving other people for the next twenty or thirty years. It wasn't in his nature to sit around waiting for orders. And during training they had to be ordered to do everything. You weren't supposed to do anything without being ordered to, and when you did receive an order you were supposed to obey it swiftly and without any show of dissent or resentment whatsoever. Making smart ass comments was definitely on the 'no' list._

_He'd tried, a little - there was no escape from this and he didn't want to spend all his time being 'disciplined' for infractions - but his very nature meant it was never going to be a success. People didn't change, even when you made them slaves. He couldn't forget what he had been. He couldn't accept that he was now a slave - less than human._

_Now he knelt before the head instructor with the feeling of having been sent to the principal's office. He'd been kneeling in this position for thirty minutes while the woman ignored him and carried on her with her work and he'd had enough. He shifted his weight and made a sound and she looked up at him, frowning._

_"Be quiet, slave."_

_"You sent for me. Can we get on with the caning so I can get out of here? It's movie night and I'm missing it."_

_The words tumbled out before he could stop them but he didn't care. This keeping him waiting stuff was all bullshit. There wasn't a movie of course, but they were cutting into what was already a ludicrously small amount of 'free time' the slaves were allowed at the end of the day._

_The instructor came around the desk and stared down at him._

_"Your problem, slave, is that you think that you are too good for this. That you are somehow better than the other slaves in your class. In fact you are worse - you are far behind in your training - all of them have made much more progress than you."_

_Yeah, flunking slave training - just as he thought. Big deal._

_"Luckily we have a process that is designed to help you become a better slave. It will enable you forget what you once were, and adjust to your new life. You'll start treatment immediately. They're ready for you now."_

_As a flutter of anxiety went through him - what the hell did_ that _mean - the door opened and two burly handlers came in. He was taken out of the office and down the corridor to the medical room. There he was fastened on his back to the table, each limb held tight by a restraint. He began struggling but there was no give in the restraints. A gag was placed in his mouth and he couldn't even protest verbally. He watched, helpless, as a drip was inserted in his forearm and the flow started. He couldn't see what drug the bag held but he could feel it entering his veins._

_He was left alone for a few minutes and he began to feel numb, disconnected from his body. Whatever the drug was it was taking effect. A technician entered and placed headphones over his ears and a screen was set up in front of his eyes. His head was blocked into place so he was forced to watch the screen. Something was put on his eyelids so he couldn't close them._

_Images flashed and went, too fast for him to see what they were. A voice whispered in his ears and then he felt the jolt of an electric shock - one much stronger than he'd experienced in training so far. He tried to pull away but he was held tight by the restraints._

_Over and over again the process repeated until he couldn't think anymore. There was only the images, the sound and then the pain. He tried to scream but the gag stopped even that._

_When they released him from the table he followed them numbly out of the room._

_When they asked him his full name he replied, 'Greg'._

_When they asked him what he was he said, 'a slave'._

_When they asked him what he had once been he tried to answer but he found himself on the floor, retching. They told him it was okay, that it was better that he didn't try and think about his past. Then they gave him a treat._

* * *

Wilson turned up early on the Saturday morning for his Slave Ownership course. He was a little apprehensive about it, but figured if he could survive med school he could survive this. It would be good to learn something about keeping a slave - even if it was knowledge he didn't really expect to use. Greg wasn't going to be a slave to him, so much as some help around the apartment, and someone for Wilson to mentor. He had ideas about getting Greg some education - maybe get him enrolled in a couple of online courses. He wasn't going to be requiring Greg to kneel and call him 'master' or anything like that. 

There were two other students in the class. One was an older lady, who wanted a slave 'to help around the house' now that her husband had died. She confided to Wilson that she'd been enjoying a variety of different things since becoming a widower - things that her husband would have disapproved of. Wilson wondered if owning a slave was just another adventure for her, on a level with her trip to South America. The other person was a man who had a business he operated from home and he wanted a slave to help with that. They both politely listened when Wilson explained that he was buying a slave to keep his apartment cleaned - but Wilson had the impression that they thought he had an ulterior motive. The man gave him a knowing wink and slapped him on the back in a hearty fashion that irritated Wilson. 

Their instructor turned up ten minutes late and hurriedly handed out some course notes. 

"These summarize what you need to know. The legal requirements are the most important thing. The course includes a quiz tomorrow afternoon but don't worry, we'll tell you the answers to that in advance - we want you to pass."

The course was rapid fire. Saturday's sessions covered housing requirements, feeding regulations, insurance, the owner's legal responsibility for their slave and their slave's actions. What duties an owner could legally require of a slave (which apparently was pretty much anything that wasn't a criminal act). 

On Sunday they did the practical training. This covered two main areas - the use of slave collars, and discipline. The instructor had a slave with him to demonstrate. 

Wilson had seen the collar around Greg's neck of course. It was brown leather, and stamped with Rent-A-Slave's company logo. A small tag hung off it with Greg's name and registration number. It reminded Wilson of the collar his dog used to wear. 

The instructor produced a similar looking collar and fitted it to the slave with him so they could see how it fastened. He had them all come close and examine it.

"Your slave must wear a collar at all times. Every owner supplies their own. They can be purchased from any supply store, or through our agency. They're similar to the tracking devices used on criminals on parole. All collars contain a GPS chip which can be programmed to give your slave a radius to roam in - if they stray outside that area, or attempt to tamper with or remove the collar, they receive a shock. You can also trigger a shock manually by using the control." He produced a small device - much like an electronic car key - and pressed a button on it. The collar made a buzzing sound and the slave jerked. Wilson remembered the electrical shock he'd felt when he was touching Greg after he fell down the stairs. That shock had been delivered to Greg merely to get him to return to his supervisor. 

"If the slave doesn't immediately return to a safe zone the collar will deliver a larger shock and so forth. The intensity ramps up if the slave persists in straying. At a high level the slave will be incapacitated, and it could even cause death, so you need to be careful what settings you use. If you permanently harm or kill your slave you can be liable for criminal charges. You would have to prove that the higher setting was needed to control the slave."

Wilson had no intention of ever causing Greg to experience any level of shock - let alone a lethal one. 

"The collar assists in keeping the slave where he should be but there are times when you may need to administer additional discipline to ensure good behaviour." The instructor continued once they'd all had a chance to examine the control device.

"For private owners there are restrictions on what tools you can use to deliver this discipline. You may use a crop, or a paddle, or a light cane. Blows should be administered only on the buttocks and upper thighs and the skin should not be broken. The number of strokes is limited to ten. Any more than that, or if you want the slave whipped, has to be administered through the Slave Tribunal. You make your case, and they decide on the appropriate punishment and have an expert carry it out - there's a small fee involved of course."

Of course. Wilson was beginning to think that the various levels of Government saw private slave ownership as a great excuse to milk as many taxes and fees out of the owners as they could. Not that that would concern him - he had no intention of taking Greg to the Slave Tribunal for anything - let alone a whipping.

"All those tools can be purchased at the end of this course. We do a discount for a bulk pack of a collar and the tools. Besides physical punishment you should also consider other methods of correction. The slave can be confined to their room for a period of time, or have harsher duties imposed, or be deprived of any privileges that you have granted them. You could take their clothes away for example, or deny them any but the plainest of foods. Physical correction should be a last resort. A skilled slave owner will rarely need to use it."

"Can you demonstrate?" The businessman asked. The older lady taking the course leaned forward in her seat, her eyes alive with interest.

The instructor gave a rueful smile, and Wilson wondered if someone in every course asked the same question. His slave was standing quietly at the front of the room, hands clasped behind him and head bowed. 

"I'm sorry but we don't allow physical punishment of the slave unless he's done something to earn it. Rodney is a very well behaved slave. The instruments aren't difficult to use. Just start at below the strength you think you will require and adjust upwards if needed - that way you shouldn't cause more harm than you are legally allowed to. "

"We should be allowed to punish our slaves however we want." The businessman folded his arms, and scowled at both the instructor and his hapless slave. "All these regulations are a load of crap. In the old days you used to take your slave home and keep him however you want to - damn this political correctness nonsense. "

The instructor shrugged. "That may be right, sir. But I can only teach you the law as it stands now. These regulations are designed to protect a valuable asset - society's slaves - from abuse. This enables them to work longer, and harder. Now, moving on...."

By the end of the weekend Wilson had received his certification and had purchased a collar for Greg. He'd firmly refused to buy any 'disciplinary instruments' although he noticed that both of his classmates had bought the complete package. 

On Monday his apartment was inspected - including the new lock on the second bedroom door, and the bars on the window - and declared satisfactory. On Wednesday he used his lunch hour to acquire his license - which turned out to be a five minute procedure once he submitted his paperwork. 

With all the necessary items in hand he found himself faced with the reality of what he was going to do. He wrote out the check to Rent-a-Slave and turned it over in his hands. It was a lot of money, on top of what he'd already spent, and he couldn't really justify it financially. Even if he were to work Greg hard, he'd never return this sort of value. Doing this was very ill advised. He should forget the whole thing. 

Except he couldn't forget Greg, and the way he'd looked the day Wilson had first encountered him. If there was ever somebody who needed a helping hand it was him. He'd made a connection with him and he was committed now. He pulled the phone towards him and dialled the number of Cuddy's contact at Rent-a-Slave. 

He was going to buy a slave.


	6. Chapter 6

Morning came with an awareness of pain that blanked out all other thought. Waking up was always the hardest part of the day. He was usually given painkillers after evening meal but the little help they provided always wore off overnight. Over the years since the infarction he'd worked out the best position to sleep in to help and he managed a few hours sleep every night from sheer exhaustion but every morning when he woke up pain gripped his leg tight. 

He didn't have long to coax his leg into behaving. After the lights came on and the door opened they only had minutes to get themselves together and to the dining room for morning meal. Any slave who was late didn't eat. He'd skip morning meal if it meant he could lie in bed for a while longer but that wasn't permitted either. 

As the other slaves started to get up, he did some quick exercises for his leg. He'd been given some rehab after it happened and he'd absorbed as much of their instructions as he could and over time developed his own system of getting the leg moving in the morning. With gritted teeth he got to his feet when he couldn't delay any longer. He made the bed tidy and picked up his folded clothes from underneath his pillow. The other slaves were on their way out the door as he was still putting on his shorts.

One of them stopped by his bed.

"C'mon on, Greg. You'll be late again."

He ignored him. Chris wasn't as moronic as some of his fellow slaves but he wasn't real bright either. It wasn't like Greg was dawdling for fun - he could barely move. Chris stood there for a few seconds and then shrugged and hurried after the other slaves. Greg grabbed his shirt and went towards the door, pulling the shirt on over his head as he went.

He was last in the door as usual and got the usual whack of a crop on his ass for his tardiness. It stung but against the pain in his leg it was more of a useful distraction than anything. Greg had realised a while ago that his body could only feel one major pain at a time - a technique he used sometimes when the pain in his thigh was bad enough. He'd been taken to the medical room more than once with a self-inflicted wound. Luckily the doctor had never caught on to what he was doing - he just thought Greg was an incredibly stupid and clumsy slave. 

The worst thing about being last was that he got the last scrapings of food for his morning meal. Each slave was served up a measured portion but there never seemed to be quite enough for the last slave to get a full bowl. And the stuff at the bottom of the pan was even less appetising than the rest of it. 

There was no point in complaining though so he took his bowl, picked up his plastic glass of orange coloured juice and sat at the end of the table. 

They ate quickly and without a lot of chatter. They were allowed to talk - quietly - but nobody had much to say to each other. What was there to talk about? Greg knew it was Saturday but Friday night this week had been the same as Friday night any week. Today was a full workday. Tomorrow would be one too. There were no weekends for slaves. All they knew was their work and who wanted to talk about that?

When they were finished they went to the muster room for assignments. Greg was still on the hospital team. He hadn't seen Doctor Wilson for the last few days - but that wasn't surprising as he had been taken off bathroom duty. Apparently someone had complained about him - a fact that had not made his supervisor happy. He'd been set to work in the basement, doing more painting and some cleaning up. He liked it down there, there was a lot less walking than doing the bathrooms, but he did miss that little bit of human contact he'd had with Doctor Wilson. For a few precious minutes somebody had treated him like a human being, almost like someone they wanted to get to know.

In the large muster room he picked up his coveralls from the stack there and stood waiting to be called to the truck.

"Greg - hospital. No, hang on..." The supervisor flipped a sheet of paper. "No, there's a hold on you. Stand over there out of the way."

Greg limped over to the place indicated and waited obediently. The truck to the hospital rolled away without him. He was probably being assigned to another place. 

In the next few minutes all the slaves were sent on their way. The company aim, Greg had gathered, was to have every slave rented out for every minute of their working day. Any slave not assigned somewhere was a waste. Sometimes this wasn't achieved and leftover slaves were put to work cleaning their quarters and the rest of the building but it seemed like he was the only one left today.

The supervisor looked over at him.

"Greg, go back to the kitchens - tell them they can have you until ten. Someone will come and get you then."

"Yes, sir." 

He turned back the way he had come, tight with apprehension. Any change in routine was not good. He remembered the physical from a couple of weeks ago - he'd heard nothing more about being sold. Maybe this was something to do with that. 

He'd been sold a few times since he'd become a slave. None of the moves had been easy. Every place had their own routine, their own expectations of their slaves and mostly you found out the rules the hard way. Settling in with a new group of slaves was also hard. He hadn't even bothered to try and make friends when he came here. He was freshly crippled - sold while he was still recovering from that - and he'd been more concerned about trying to learn to live with the limp, and the pain, than with trying to smooth his way with the other slaves. Before the infarction the work was hard, and mind numbing, but after it his life had become a never ending struggle. 

He entered the kitchen and cleared his mind of worry and speculation. It was pointless. Whatever they wanted to do to him next there was nothing he could do to stop it.

* * *

"We don't normally sell our slaves, Doctor Wilson - not on an individual basis anyway." Michael Ashworth, the manager of Rent-A-Slave (New Jersey office) explained. 

Wilson has already handed over his check, and Ashworth had verified his license. They were sitting in Ashworth's plush office and Ashworth had sent for Greg. This was about to happen.

"We're making an exception for Greg because in his condition this company is not really the right place for him."

"I'm surprised you bought him in the first place." Wilson admitted, he'd been curious about that. A place that existed to hire out slaves would usually require only fit, strong, slaves. 

Ashworth waved a hand. "He was part of a company takeover. We bought out the smaller place that owned him shortly after he was crippled. We would have dumped him off as soon as we could but the previous owner requested as part of the deal that we keep him until we could find him a place that would treat him well. It wasn't easy to find someone who would want a crippled slave."

Wilson had the feeling of being suckered. He wondered if he could have gotten Greg for less than the ten thousand dollar check that was currently sitting on Ashworth's desk if he'd pushed. It had seemed such a small sum for a human life that he hadn't even questioned it. 

"Lucky I came along."

Ashworth smiled. "Greg is a good worker despite his disability. We've had no problems with him. He should serve you well."

Both men looked around at the sound of footsteps as Greg and another man approached. Wilson did a quick survey of Greg. He was dressed in a worn pair of shorts and a t-shirt with a pair of flip flops on his feet. He was walking slowly with that severe limp and as usual he was staring at the ground. 

"Would you like to inspect him before you take him, Doctor Wilson? You have the full disclosure report I believe but you are quite welcome to check him out yourself. We don't accept returns." Ashworth chuckled softly.

There was no way Wilson wasn't taking Greg with him today so he didn't see the need to subject him to a close examination. He just wanted to get out of here. There was something he found disquieting about the whole company. The plush office and Ashworth's immaculate appearance didn't disguise the fact that this was a company that made money off the back of slaves. And despite the promise to Greg's previous owner they'd kept Greg here for years with no apparent regard for his disability or his limitations. 

"No, it's fine."

Ashworth nodded. "Then let's get this done. Have you got his collar?"

Wilson nodded and produced it out of the bag. 

"Slave." Ashworth addressed Greg for the first time. "Come and kneel in front of me."

Greg came into the office and knelt down obediently. Wilson could see he was nervous. He seemed very tense. 

"Doctor Wilson has purchased you." Ashworth said as he released Greg's collar from around his neck. Greg looked up and glanced at Wilson, his eyes wide. "Go to him, now."

Greg didn't get up, instead shuffling over on his knees until he knelt in front of Wilson. Wilson had an impulse to tell him to stand up but the collar _would_ be easier to fasten like this. 

He didn't like to do it - he could see the skin around Greg's neck was calloused from years of wearing a collar, but he had no choice. He slowly fastened it around him. As he did so he gave a reassuring squeeze to Greg's shoulder. Greg flinched slightly and Wilson sighed to himself - it would take time and good treatment before Greg was comfortable with him, he knew that, but he didn't like to see that fear reaction to anything he did. Wilson had given him no reason to distrust him. 

He finished adjusting the collar and sat back in his seat. The control to the collar was in his pocket. He'd programmed the GPS chip before he set out. According to the instructions with the collar he was supposed to use the test function to check the shock portion of the collar was working once it was fastened on the slave. Well, there was no way he was doing _that._

Greg knelt back into position, now closer to him rather than to Ashworth. He looked up briefly to meet Wilson's eyes and then back down at the carpet, his head bowed. 

"Do you have clothes for him?" Ashworth asked and Wilson froze. He hadn't thought to bring clothes. Surely he wasn't going to be required to take Greg home naked?

"Would you like to purchase the ones he is wearing?"

Wilson automatically began to reach for his money. How much would an old pair of shorts and a threadbare t-shirt run to anyway?

Ashworth laughed and shook his head. "Sorry, Doctor Wilson, I was just having fun with you. You can keep the clothes - free of charge even."

Wilson felt a flare of anger but restrained it. He didn't need to be throwing anything through a window here. Nothing could go wrong with this purchase. Any doubts he might have had were rapidly dissolving. He had to get Greg out of this place. 

"Are we all done?" He asked, already starting to stand.

"Yes, that's all in order. You can take him now. It's been a pleasure, Doctor Wilson."

And just like that, he'd bought a slave

* * *

Greg rose to his feet and fell in behind Doctor Wilson as they left the office. To the right at the end of a corridor was a heavy locked door that led into the main part of the building where the slaves were housed (and where the plush carpet and tasteful furnishings of the offices gave way to bare floor and institutional beds and chairs). Doctor Wilson turned left instead and gestured to a staircase.

"Can you manage the stairs okay, Greg? I can see if they have an elevator."

Greg looked at the staircase. It was carpeted and had handrails along one side. The treads were nice and wide. He was almost insulted that Doctor Wilson though he couldn't walk down it. On the other hand the doctor had first 'met' him after Greg had tumbled down one of the hospital's staircases so he had grounds for thinking that Greg was a useless cripple. 

"Yes, sir." He hesitated, waiting for Doctor Wilson to precede him but Wilson made an expansive 'after you' type gesture with his hand. He probably wanted to watch Greg so he could see just how badly he walked. 

Greg took hold of the handrail in one hand and walked down as confidently as he could manage. He was aware of Doctor Wilson's following him and that made him feel anxious and on edge. The new collar felt strange around his neck. Greg's old one was more worn and supple, this one was obviously brand new and felt stiff and uncomfortable. Even though he'd had a suspicion that a sale might be coming it was still disconcerting to have changed hands again. He'd been working and living here since the infarction. It was home, as much as he could ever have a home; he knew how things worked here. The hospital was an unknown quantity. 

He'd never been in this part of the building of course. He hadn't even been in Mr Ashworth's office before today, and had only seen him a handful of times. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he waited for Doctor Wilson to take the lead again and followed him out a set of glass doors and into a street.

He looked around. They were in what appeared to be a quiet part of town. There were a handful of other premises, and a few people around. For one absurd moment he had the urge to run down the street as fast he could until he was out of sight. The impulse didn't last long - he couldn't run and no doubt his new collar would be as effective as his old for stopping any such attempts. And where would he go anyway? He had no money, no clothes other than what he was wearing and no possessions. 

"Car's over here." Doctor Wilson said cheerfully, gesturing to a car on the side of the road, parked close by. Greg looked at it, it was a shiny silver colour and was, according to the badge on the back, a 'Volvo'. Doctor Wilson opened a door on the right and waved Greg into the seat. 

Greg sat in the soft seat and stared at the car. He hadn't been in a vehicle where he could see out for many years. They were always transported by truck, or small vehicles with blacked out windows in the back. 

His fingers twitched with an urge to explore. There were many buttons and other things in front of him, nothing looked familiar from what he could remember of cars from when he was free, except the steering wheel. 

"Seat belt," Doctor Wilson said, settling into his own seat. Greg looked at him, confused and then noticed that Doctor Wilson was pulling a strap across his body. He looked around and found his own and with some fumbling managed to fasten it. Doctor Wilson nodded approvingly and started the car.

"Bet you're glad to get away from there."

Greg stared out of the window at the passing scenery. He'd never seen Rent-A-Slave from the outside before. It looked like an unremarkable warehouse, with no sign of the dozens of slaves that lived their lives there. They were all kept out the back, safely out of sight. 

He realised that the doctor was waiting for an answer. He wasn't sure what to say, but he'd learned that you could rarely go wrong agreeing with a freeman.

"Yes, sir." 

Doctor Wilson made a sound that Greg couldn't interpret, but he didn't seem happy. Maybe 'yes' had been the wrong answer after all.

"You don't have to call me 'sir' all the time, you know." 

Greg was startled. There was one supervisor in the first place that owned him that liked the slaves to call him 'master' but since then it had been 'sir', or 'ma'am' all the time. The freemen had always seemed happy enough with that. As much as anything that a slave did made them happy.  
"What should I call you then, sir?"

"My name is James but most people at the hospital just call me Wilson. You could call me that."

"Yes, sir... “This was going to be hard to get used to. He thought he'd prefer Master but of course it wasn't his choice. "Yes, Wilson."

Doctor Wilson let out a soft sigh and Greg felt his stomach clench - apparently he'd gotten that wrong somehow. It was so difficult dealing with free men.

The doctor didn't say anything else so Greg went back to staring out the windows of the car; trying to take it all in. They were in heavy traffic now and were surrounded by other cars. He could see people in all the surrounding ones. Once or twice someone glanced over to their car but no-one seemed to take special notice of the slave sitting in a car. He wondered, as he sometimes did, what it would be like to be one of those people. What were their lives like? He'd never know.

Doctor Wilson pulled up by the side of the road, in front of some buildings. Greg looked at him in surprise. He'd assumed that the doctor would take him straight to the hospital.

Doctor Wilson smiled at him. 

"You can relax, Greg. I know I bought you, but I don't intend to treat you like those people treated you. I'll make sure you get good food, and that you get some therapy for your leg - we'll see if anything can be done about it. You won't have too much to do - my place is pretty small, it won't be anything like cleaning the hospital."

He hadn't been bought for the hospital? But by Doctor Wilson, personally? For his own use? Greg had heard of slaves serving private people before but he had no direct experience of it. He'd been owned by large companies ever since he'd been enslaved. 

"I'm to be your slave, sir? Not the hospital?"

"Yes, of course. Mr Ashworth told you that I'd bought you."

"I thought he meant for the hospital."

Doctor Wilson laughed. "No, sorry Greg, you're stuck with me. Come on, get out of the car. We're home."


	7. Chapter 7

Greg got out of the car, still trying to process what Doctor Wilson had told him. He felt even more unsure now than he had before. He didn't know what would be expected of him as a private slave. Did the doctor have other slaves? And why would he want Greg? He'd said something about Greg's duties being light and about him getting treatment for his leg. But he wouldn't have bought Greg just to get him treatment - he must have another reason. 

As he followed Doctor Wilson up to the front door of the building a man holding hands with a young child walked past them. The child stared at Greg, and then turned to the man, chattering excitedly. The man quickly glanced at Greg and then looked away, tugging on the boy's hand. As the child was pulled away he kept staring back at Greg. 

Doctor Wilson looked back from where he was holding the door open. "Come on, Greg."

Greg hurried as much as he could, taking the couple of steps up to the door and entering the building. They crossed to an elevator where there was a woman already waiting. 

The woman looked up and then stared at Greg - her eyes going to his collar. A look of distaste crossed her face and she turned to Doctor Wilson.

"Doctor Wilson? Does that slave belong to you?"

Doctor Wilson looked embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Yes, I bought him today. He's going to help me around the apartment."

The woman raised an eyebrow and moved slightly away from them. When the elevator came they all entered. Greg stood as far into the corner as he could, as he'd been taught, and looked down at the floor. He could feel the woman staring at him and Doctor Wilson appeared uncomfortable. When the elevator stopped and they got off Doctor Wilson sighed.

"Well, everyone in the building will know I have a slave by lunchtime." He crossed to a door and unlocked it. "This is my place." He waved Greg into the apartment.

It was a large place, and Greg looked around, taking in details. His eyes swept the floor and the ceiling, often neglected areas. They were clean, but not immaculate. He could see many places where cleaning would be needed to get the apartment up to a high standard. Once he had achieved that it wouldn't be difficult to keep it at that standard. There was nothing here that would require a full time slave that he could see. 

Doctor Wilson was talking - pointing out this and that - and Greg tried to listen and absorb it all. He would be expected to know everything after this - most people didn't like repeating themselves. 

"And you room is through here." 

He indicated a closed door and stood back. Greg glanced at Doctor Wilson - it wasn't his place to open closed doors in his owner's house - but he nodded encouragingly so Greg pushed the door open. He walked into a large bedroom. 

There was a bed twice the size of his old dorm bunk in the middle of the room. It had been made up with sheets and a blanket, with a covering on top of that. There were four pillows in a matching fabric at the head of the bed. Two small tables stood either side of the bed, one had a small lamp, the other a couple of colourful magazines. 

"There's another blanket in the dresser, and some more sheets," Wilson said, crossing to a chest of drawers and opening them as if to demonstrate. "If you need more pillows, or anything else, let me know."

The floor was carpeted and as Greg looked around he noticed another door. After another nod from Doctor Wilson he went through it into a bathroom. There were large, and clean, towels hanging up and a fresh bar of soap sat by the side of the sink. A few small bottles of liquid sat on the counter. There was a shower with a glass sliding door in one corner and a toilet in another.

"This is your bathroom. I wasn't sure what you used so I just got you the same shampoo as mine." Doctor Wilson was looking at him, almost nervously. Greg had no idea why.

"This is for me to use, sir?" Greg clarified - it wouldn't do to use this beautiful bathroom if he wasn't supposed to. He looked at the toilet. The toilet paper was soft and had what appeared to be little ducks printed on it. This room couldn't be for him. 

"Of course. I have my own." Doctor Wilson answered. He made a vague gesture towards the window. “Sorry about the bars, they're a requirement." 

Greg glanced up at the window in the bathroom, it had bars over it. The bedroom window was also barred. His old dorm didn't even have a window - why would he care about bars?

He went back into the bedroom. For one moment he wanted to throw himself down on the bed and try it out. It looked incredibly soft compared to his old one - the bedding was warm and luxurious. He had his own bathroom. Doctor Wilson had bought him some shampoo, and some soap to use. _He had his own toilet._

"We need to get you some clothes - my things won't fit you." Doctor Wilson continued, his words coming fast. He was rubbing the back of his neck again. "Some shoes as well, those flip flops can't be very good for your feet."

"Yes, sir." Greg said when Doctor Wilson paused and looked at him expectantly. Doctor Wilson looked a little disappointed. Greg realised he'd been saying 'sir' again - it was a hard habit to break. "Yes, Wilson," he amended. It still sounded odd to him. Doctor Wilson didn't look any happier.

He stared again at the bedroom - taking in all the details. The cleaning standard here was even higher than in the rest of the apartment, as if it had been freshly done. Greg had once been assigned to a team that cleaned a hotel. The bedrooms there had been like this one. This was a bedroom for a guest, not a slave.

He felt himself begin to tremble. 

"Greg? What's the matter?" Doctor Wilson was staring at him. "Sit down, Greg - you look pale."

Greg sat, sinking into the soft surface of the bed, trying not to disturb the cover. He stared at the floor, still trembling. 

"Greg, look at me," Doctor Wilson ordered and he looked up. The doctor was looking at him with concern, not contempt, but it didn't help. "What's wrong, Greg? Don't you like the room? Is it the bars?"

Greg swallowed hard. He had to pull himself together. No owner would put up with a slave behaving like this. He didn't know why Doctor Wilson had bought him, but for the chance to stay here, in this room, he needed to show him that he hadn't made a mistake.

"No, sir. Thank you for the room. I'm sorry, sir. I am fine. May I stand up?" He wanted to stand and show Doctor Wilson that he was strong, and he could be useful, but he couldn't without permission. 

Instead of granting permission Doctor Wilson sat beside him on the bed, so close that their shoulders were almost touching. Greg held himself away. 

"Greg, I know this must be a big change for you. It probably seems very sudden and you haven't had time to adjust. When did they tell you I was buying you?"

Greg was puzzled, Doctor Wilson had been there in Mr Ashworth's office when he was told.

"This morning, sir. When you put your collar on me." He put his hand up but didn't touch the stiff new leather collar around his neck. Touching it wasn't permitted.

"That was the first you knew about it? I thought they would have given you some warning so you could say goodbye to your friends and get ready."

Greg didn't know what to say to that but luckily Doctor Wilson was continuing to talk. "I'm sorry, Greg. I think I've made a lot of wrong assumptions. This is new to me. I've never had much to do with slaves before," he spread his hands and made a sound of amusement. "If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, or you don't understand you need to tell me."

"Yes, sir." Greg said. He had managed to stop shaking, although he still felt light headed. He wished that Doctor Wilson would just tell him his duties and let him start work. Sitting here like this, with a freeman - his owner no less - was making him anxious. 

"Look, I think I'll make us both some lunch and then we can talk more about how this is going to work. You stay here while I do that and get settled in." Doctor Wilson looked around the room and frowned. "We really need to get you some more clothes, we'll do that this afternoon." He stood up. "I'll give you a call when lunch is ready."

Before Greg could say anything he hurried off. He didn't shut the door behind him and a few seconds later Greg could hear him working in the kitchen. 

He considered what to do. He'd been ordered to sit, and hadn't been told to stand again. But Doctor Wilson had told him to 'get settled in'. Greg had no idea what that meant he was to do. He glanced at the side of the bed. There were two magazines there. One had a picture of a car on front of it, the other a picture of a family. A man and a woman, two smiling kids. They all looked happy. He wondered if 'get settled in' meant that he could look at the magazines. He was tempted for a moment. He sometimes had a very rare opportunity to look through a magazine at a worksite, but they were always quick, snatched moments. Reading for slaves wasn't encouraged. Maybe Doctor Wilson meant he could look at the magazines but maybe he didn't. Maybe he was supposed to start cleaning the room. But he didn't know where the cleaning supplies were and he'd been ordered to stay in this room. 

He stayed sitting where he'd been left.

* * *

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he fled Greg's room. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't really it. He'd thought Greg would be pleased at the room he'd prepared for him - it had to be better than a slave would normally have, surely? Instead Greg had started shaking and looked like he was about to faint. 

If he could only get some sort of expression of emotion from Greg. It reminded him of doing his Boards. The examiners had received all his answers, right and wrong, with the same blank expression - indicating neither approval nor disapproval. Greg's reactions were so controlled, - and his conversation seemingly limited to 'yes,sir' and 'no,sir' - that it was difficult to work out how he was really feeling. Wilson had to find some way of getting Greg to relax a little so they could get past that.

Food might be a start. Wilson had always used that as a tool when he was striking up a relationship with a new woman. Food was a great icebreaker. He wasn't trying to romance Greg of course, but he _was_ trying to win him over. If matching bed linen hadn't done it maybe food was the answer.

Something along the lines of comfort food would be good he decided. Cheese sandwiches and some tomato soup. Everybody liked that. He knew it wouldn't be a good idea to give Greg too much rich food to start with - he was probably used to a basic diet - but that shouldn't cause him any harm. He himself wouldn't mind a stiff drink, but it was only lunchtime and he wasn't sure if Greg was supposed to drink anyway. 

He busied himself with the food preparation, smiling at the irony of the 'master' making food for the 'slave'. Maybe he'd ask Greg to make the meals once he'd settled in - it would give him something to do, make him feel useful. Wilson didn't intend to work Greg like a... well, like a slave, but they were both living here and Wilson would be working full time (and then some), and it would be good if Greg could keep the apartment clean, do the laundry, and make meals. He could even help Wilson with some basic paperwork - filing, maybe he'd be able to do spreadsheets, some typing up of reports. It would be nice to have someone to help.

He finished with the simple meal and went back into the bedroom to call Greg, finding him still sitting on the bed where he'd left him. 

Normally he ate in front of the television but he decided to make this first meal a little more formal - and he wanted to talk to Greg anyway. He waved Greg to the dining table and brought the food over. 

"I don't know what you like, but I thought cheese sandwiches and tomato soup are pretty much a given." 

Greg stared down at the food. He was perched on the edge of his chair, looking stiff and uncomfortable. 

"I know it's not gourmet but it should be edible," Wilson said, somewhat sharply, when Greg made no move to eat. "Eat up."

Greg quickly picked up a sandwich and took a bite. His eyes widened and he took another, more enthusiastic bite. Wilson smiled. At last he seemed to have impressed Greg.

"You like it?"

"Yes, sir." Greg put down the sandwich to answer. "I mean, Wilson."

"You know, when I said not to call me Wilson, not 'sir', I didn't mean you had to put it into every sentence. Just say 'yes' or 'no'. I know you've probably been taught that you should but I don't need you to do that. If you have to call me by name call me Wilson - but otherwise it's not necessary."

Greg looked a little confused and Wilson began to think he should have just left it at 'sir'. Greg would probably relax a little in his own time - when he got used to being around him.

"What I mean is, you don't have to be on formal manners around me. I don't bite."

Greg looked down at the table and then back up at him. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn't quite dare.

"What is it, Greg? Did you have a question? It's okay to ask - it's _always_ okay to ask me."

"Why did you buy me?" Greg asked softly, then immediately looked back down at the table. 

_I felt sorry for you,_ was probably the most honest answer but Wilson wasn't going to say that. He didn't want Greg to think he was some sort of charity case. 

"I could use some help around the apartment. I work long hours and I don't have a lot of time." It wasn't the whole truth - he could easily hire a cleaning lady for a fraction of what Greg had cost - but he did want Greg to think he had some value to him. Everybody liked to think they something useful to contribute. "I also want to get you some help for your leg. You should be on a proper medication regime, and in physical therapy. You're in pain a lot of the time, aren't you?"

Greg looked back up at him. "Yes, sir" he said softly. "All the time." The blank expression was still there but there was vulnerability in his eyes. Admitting to pain, even if it was obvious from the way the moved, was admitting to weakness. 

Wilson nodded. "We can do something about that. Call this a mutually beneficial relationship."  
Greg didn't look convinced and Wilson didn't think he could blame him. He had a feeling that no-one had done anything for Greg's benefit for a long time. Well, Greg would find out in time that Wilson meant him no harm - and only wanted to help him. 

"Eat your lunch, Greg." He pointed to the remaining food on Greg's plate. The conversation had interrupted Greg's hearty eating. Greg cautiously picked up the remains of his sandwich and finished eating it, his eyes flicking from the food to Wilson the whole time. When he was finished Wilson gave him two painkillers. He'd discovered that slaves couldn't be prescribed narcotics unless they were actually in a hospital, so he'd had to settle for over the counter pills. A regular schedule of those and some ibuprofen should at least help Greg's pain levels. With a reduced work schedule and the therapy he intended to get him he should be a lot more comfortable.

After they'd finished eating Wilson showed Greg how to stack the dishwasher with their plates. Greg watched him seriously and listened intently as Wilson told him how the machine was operated. Greg was showing no signs of his earlier indisposition so Wilson decided to press on with his plans for the day. He really needed to get Greg some clothes - the threadbare t-shirt and shorts he was wearing wouldn't last too many more washes - and besides he was sure that Greg would appreciate some better clothes. Before going out he had one more thing to show Greg.

He produced it from its hiding place in the hall closet and gave it to Greg. 

"You can use this to help you walk," he said. It had been an impulse purchase. He'd been shopping for some furniture for Greg's bedroom when he'd spied the cane in a corner of the shop. It wasn't really ideal - Greg still needed to be assessed by a therapist who would probably recommend a multi footed cane to start with at least - but Wilson hoped it would convey his good intentions at least. Greg could use it this afternoon when they went shopping - it would have to make walking a little easier for him.

Greg held the wooden cane in his hands and stared down at it. It was a nice one, with a hook handle. It was clear that he wasn't really sure what it was.

"It's a cane," Wilson told him. Greg looked at him, his eyes wide and his body tense. Wilson was puzzled until he remembered the slave training course. Slaves could be caned. Probably Greg had been at some time in the past. He couldn't really think that Wilson was going to lay into him with this heavy wooden cane though, could he?

"It's a _walking_ cane," he said. "Here, you hold it like this." He showed Greg, placing his fingers around the top of the cane. "Now try walking with it, use the hallway."

It took a few traverses of the hallway but Greg was soon moving more confidently with the cane. He was lopsided as he walked, his weight coming down over the cane but he moved quicker and easier than he did without it. He stopped and picked it up, running a hand over it. He looked up at Wilson who was watching him.

"You bought this for me, sir?"

"Yes. We'll get you to a therapist and get you assessed to see what sort of aid would be best for you, but I thought that would be better than nothing."

"My leg doesn't hurt as much when I use this."

"That's great. I'm glad it helps."

Greg nodded and did one more lap of the hallway, pausing to stare into his open bedroom door. When he returned to Wilson there was a small smile on his face.

"Thank you, Wilson."

Wilson returned the smile, pleased. "You're welcome, Greg."


	8. Chapter 8

Wilson had never enjoyed clothes shopping with any of his wives, and he enjoyed it even less with Greg in tow. As it had been for the trip to the apartment Greg's attention during the drive was focused on the activity in the busy Princeton streets. His eyes were wide as he looked around them, at the buildings, at the people, at the other cars. Wilson guessed he hadn't really seen much the last few years outside of the Rent A Slave headquarters and the various places he'd worked. From his reaction all this was new to him.

When they parked at the mall and walked to the stores Greg visibly tensed. He was moving more easily with the cane but they still attracted attention. Private slaves weren't common in this part of Princeton and the cane and limp made Greg even more conspicuous. People stared, and then looked away. Wilson wasn't sure how much Greg was taking in but he noticed that as they entered the more crowded parts of the mall, packed with Saturday afternoon shoppers, that Greg moved closer to him, practically brushing shoulders as they walked. His head went down and he stared steadfastly at the ground.

"Hey, watch out!" Wilson turned and saw Greg stumbling and a young man standing staring at him. "Get out of the way, slave."

Wilson reached out and steadied Greg, who had shrunk in on himself, and then turned to the youth. "Is there a problem?"

"Your fucking slave got in my way. Maybe you should put him on a leash. Woof! Woof!" The man's friends laughed and Wilson struggled to control his temper. 

He spread his hands. "Well, I'm sorry, but there's no harm done." He turned to Greg. "Come on, Greg." They moved off rapidly, although Wilson kept a corner of his eye on the youth. He heard a mocking 'come on, Greg' behind him and more laughter and barking but didn't turn around. 

"You okay?" He asked Greg as they neared the clothing store Wilson had in mind.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault and you didn't hurt him." Greg didn't seem convinced, he still stared anxiously at the ground and Wilson decided to get on with this and get out of here. He entered the store, a place where he bought almost all of his own casual clothes. 

When he entered a sales assistant looked up and then hurried over. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't bring the slave in - company policy." He pointed at a small sign by the counter - 'No drinks, no food, no pets, no slaves'. "You need to leave him outside." Wilson considered for a moment going in and grabbing some clothes for Greg - he could always estimate his size - but the idea of leaving Greg sitting on a bench outside the shop alone didn't appeal after the encounter they'd just had.

He tried another three stores with the same result. He was getting steadily more frustrated. Surely there had to a way to buy a slave new clothes? 

In the end they went to Walmart. It wasn't a place that Wilson usually enjoyed visiting and he didn't this time. They made it in the door unhindered by security but Wilson could still see that people were watching them. That damned collar was so conspicuous that everyone in the store could instantly tell Greg was a slave. Parents moved their small children out of the way as they approached. 

Greg made no verbal protest but his eyes remained steadfastly fixed on the ground and when Wilson stopped in the men's section and began asking him what he wanted to wear he answered monosyllabically with the general gist being that whatever Wilson wanted to buy was fine with him.

Eventually Wilson began buying things more or less at random, guessing at Greg's size - he was _not_ going to try and take a slave into the fitting room - being refused entry to the fitting rooms at Walmart would be a new low. He reasoned that anything would be better than the clothes Greg had on now. He'd get Greg to try them on at home, and once he had a good idea of his size he'd go to one of his usual shops by himself and get him some better clothes. 

He picked out some jeans, and a variety of tee shirts and some button down shirts which would be useful when he took Greg out places, they could be used to make his collar a little bit less obvious. Hiding it totally with a rolltop was tempting but was against regulations according to the course he'd attended. Greg was pushing the cart, and he looked surprised as Wilson began dumping more clothes into it. 

"I'm _not_ making another trip any time soon, so we'd better stock up," Wilson explained, adding some underwear and socks to the pile. He threw in a lightweight jacket - he'd get Greg a better one and a coat when it was closer to winter. "Can you think of anything else?"

Greg looked up at him and then back at the ground. "No, sir," came the expected reply and Wilson resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. 

"Well, shoes would be a good bet don't you think?" 

Luckily the shoe department had one of those measure yourself devices and he got Greg to do that. Two pairs of sneakers joined the growing pile. He hoped they would fit, but he doubted Greg would ever admit if they didn't. 

At the checkout Greg stood close to him, hiding behind him - if you could call it hiding when he was a couple of inches taller than Wilson. On impulse Wilson grabbed a stack of candy bars from the handy display and added them to his purchase. He watched as Greg's eyes followed them and smiled. Greg might not be very interested in clothes shopping but apparently candy bars were a different matter. 

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief when he got back in the car.

"At least you'll have something to put in your closet now," he said, head turning towards his silent companion. "When we get back you can throw those old clothes away and change into your new ones."

There was the usual pause and then Greg answered, predictably, 'yes, sir'.

Wilson was tempted to bang his head against the steering wheel but reasoned that wouldn't be very productive - besides being likely to scare Greg - so instead he put the car into gear and drove off.

* * *

Greg went to his room as ordered when they returned to the apartment with his arms full of clothes. Doctor Wilson had spent a lot of money buying them, and the shoes. Greg wasn't sure why he needed so many clothes - for years he'd had one set at a time. When it was time for those to be washed they'd be given another set out of the store of clothes. If you were lucky the size wasn't too far off yours. The shorts and tee he was wearing didn't fit too badly, and he'd only been wearing them a couple of days so they still smelled okay. Still, Doctor Wilson had told him to change out of them so he stripped down.

He was glad to be back in the apartment. The car journey had been enthralling but the crowds in the mall, and the hostility of some of the people had frightened him. He wasn't used to having this much contact with free people, or the free world. He hadn't recognised many of the things in the stores, and the clothes had been a bewildering array to choose from. He had been glad when Doctor Wilson had taken over the selection and relieved when he hadn't been ordered to strip down and try the clothes on in the middle of the crowded store. 

After donning a pair of boxer shorts he reached for the jeans. They fitted well enough, except for being a little loose around the waist. Greg reached for the belt and with some fiddling managed to get it threaded through the loops. The new denim was stiff and a little uncomfortable against his scar but he'd get used to that. He pulled the first t-shirt over his head, again a little loose but not too bad and after some hesitation selected one of the button down shirts. 

There was a mirror in his room and he moved over to it. He was surprised how different he looked in these clothes. Smarter. The shirt even went up over his collar a little bit, not hiding it but making it less conspicuous. If he did up the top button and pulled it up maybe it would hide it completely. His fingers drifted in that direction. The small light on the collar was glowing - a sign that it was receiving a signal from the unit that Doctor Wilson possessed. The doctor hadn't used it once on Greg so far, not even to call him out of this room. 

He left his shirt the way it was and picked up his discarded clothes. Doctor Wilson had said to throw them away but Greg was reluctant. They still had a lot of wear in them, and they weren't his of course. They belonged to Rent A Slave. Unless Doctor Wilson had been gifted them when he bought Greg.

"Hey, you look good." Doctor Wilson poked his head through the open doorway - Greg must have been taking too long. "Those your old clothes? Here, give them to me."

Greg handed them over and the doctor took them with an expression of distaste.

"Everything fit okay? Have you tried the shoes on?"

"Yes, sir. No, sir." Greg sat on the bed to pull socks and shoes on, he couldn't manage to do it while standing. As his owner waited he put both on, fumbling with the fastening on the sneakers.

"Walk around in them, make sure they fit." Wilson ordered and Greg obediently walked around the room, holding his cane tightly. They felt strange but at the same time the sneakers seemed to give more support to his leg. Between them and the cane Greg was walking far better than he had for a long time and the pain wasn't too bad. 

Doctor Wilson looked pleased. "You look much more respectable. Hang the rest of the clothes up and I'll get rid of the old ones. There's a game on if you want to come watch it. We'll get some takeout for dinner; pizza, Thai or Chinese - your choice."

He disappeared without waiting for an answer and Greg obediently hung up the rest of his new clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror again. At the beginning of the day he'd been expecting to go to the hospital and spend a long day cleaning. Then he would have returned to his dorm, had showers and evening meal and slept in a cramped room with twenty other slaves. Now he was here, in the apartment of a doctor from the hospital. He'd been taken out shopping, and supplied with clothes, and he was to go and watch a 'game' with his new owner and then choose what they should have for dinner. So far he hadn't been put to work at all. He felt lost, confused about what his function here was. 

He'd seen slaves in the past given special treatment by their owners. Wherever he'd been kept there had usually been supervisors who would supply a slave with treats and better treatment in return for what Greg presumed to be sex - although the slaves never talked about it when they returned from being taken. Nobody had ever selected him to be a 'special slave', even when he was fit, it seemed highly unlikely that Doctor Wilson had a preference for middle aged, crippled, broken down slaves. 

A couple of slaves he'd met had been owned by an individual, and then sold to a company when they were no longer required. They hadn't talked much about what their lives had been like, or what they had done, but neither of them had boasted about having their own bathrooms and bedrooms. Greg suspected that this arrangement was highly unusual. 

Doctor Wilson had said that he bought Greg to keep the apartment clean, and so that Greg could get pain medication and help for his leg. It seemed strange to Greg - this apartment wasn't big enough that he would spend all his time cleaning it - but so far Doctor Wilson had indeed done things to help his leg and hadn't asked anything of Greg. Even if it did turn out that he had bought Greg for sex, that didn't seem to be a bad trade-off for what he was providing. Greg could live with that - he'd endured far worse.

* * *

Wilson found the afternoon and evening surprisingly enjoyable. Greg was still mostly silent but appeared fascinated by the baseball game in the afternoon, and a couple of movies Wilson put on in the evening. He sat stiffly in a chair to start with but gradually relaxed a little, although he was still attentive to anything Wilson said, and any move he made.

Choosing what to have for dinner appeared to be beyond Greg and Wilson took pity on him quickly and settled on pizza. He wondered when the last time Greg had pizza was. Probably years. After some hesitation he gave Greg a beer to have with dinner - it wasn't like anyone would know and one beer wouldn't hurt him - even if he had been abstinent for a long time. Greg had seemed to enjoy it after some initial hesitation. They'd broken out the candy bars Wilson had grabbed at Walmart for dessert. 

Wilson found himself enjoying the company - he'd been alone in the apartment for months now, and having Greg around was at least better than the echoing silence. If he could just get Greg to relax a little it would be even better. He would normally ask a new friend about their family, and their background but he knew that any questions like that triggered an unpleasant response in Greg. He'd have to find out if there was a way to reverse that, and how involved it would be. Greg might be a slave now, but once he had been free, and he had a right to remember those times - even if they were painful. Besides, Wilson was curious about what he could have done to earn such a long sentence. He couldn't imagine the timid, withdrawn man ever being violent.

He noticed that Greg appeared to be getting tired relatively early in the evening and wondered how long he'd been up, and what time he usually slept. He figured that the slaves probably started their work day early - they'd always been at the hospital by the time he arrived in the morning. And today had been a big day for Greg - no wonder he was tired. At his suggestion Greg went off to bed before ten and when he passed his open door later that evening he was sound asleep. The bedroom was still as neat and clean as when Greg first entered it, the clothing all hung away, and the only addition that could be seen was the walking cane which was propped up next to Greg's bed.

Fairly happy with the way the first day had gone Wilson went to bed himself.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg was momentarily disoriented when he woke up the next day with light coming in the window and the door already open. Then he remembered. 

Doctor Wilson hadn't locked him in last night when he'd told him to go to his bedroom. Greg had expected that he would close and lock the door when he himself went to bed but either that hadn't happened or he'd already unlocked it this morning and Greg hadn't woken up. 

The former seemed more likely. If Doctor Wilson had unlocked and opened the door this morning he would have ordered him to get up.

He lay in bed listening but he couldn't hear any movement elsewhere in the apartment. He got up quietly and went to the open door and peered out cautiously. He could just see Doctor Wilson's bedroom door from here and it was closed. He still couldn't hear anything. He went back and sat on the bed and rubbed at his thigh - just then registering that for once the pain hadn't been excruciating this morning. He'd been given painkillers with evening meal last night, and of course he'd had the cane for the afternoon and done no work for the entire day - that must be the difference. 

He went through his usual exercises for his leg anyway, enjoying that for once he could do them at his own pace, and then stood up. He carefully made his bed, remembering exactly how it had been the day before and leaving it as pristine as it was then. He reached under the pillow for his clothes before remembering that he'd hung them in the closet - _his closet_ \- the night before. Leaving them there for now he limped to the bathroom and relieved himself. No line of slaves at a trough here, just a gleaming clean porcelain toilet all to himself. He carefully cleaned it after his use and then contemplated the shower.

He'd love to have one. Just the thought of standing in there, all by himself was enticing. There was a hot water tap too. He hadn't had a hot shower for a long time, or a shower by himself. He looked back through the open door to the bedroom, unsure. What would happen if Doctor Wilson called for him and he was showering in here? Was he even allowed to shower whenever he wanted? He'd been told that the bathroom was for his own use but that didn't mean there weren't set times for its usage - or conditions. Using a toilet was one thing, having a shower was taking much more of a liberty.

In the end he opted for a quick wash at the sink. The hot water tap there worked and he revelled in the feel of it on his skin. He did a thorough job and then dried himself on one of the towels, carefully hanging it back up afterwards. Then he cleaned down the sink as best he could with the materials on hand. 

He donned the clothes from yesterday and again contemplated himself in the mirror. He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. He'd been shaved two days ago but he was due another. The handlers at Rent-a-Slave kept all the males slaves clean shaven - doing them in the slaves' 'free time' at the end of the day. He guessed that either Doctor Wilson would do it here, or allow him to do it. 

Dressed and ready for the day he went over to the door again and listened. Still no sound, and the other bedroom door was still shut. When he looked out of the window he could see that the sun was well up in the sky. He wondered how long the Doctor was going to sleep and what he was supposed to do until he woke up and issued instructions. He looked out of the window for a while but the view was restricted by the building next door and his leg was beginning to hurt because he was standing still. He turned away and looked around the room.

There was a chair in one corner so he sat there rather than disturb the carefully made bed. His gaze lit upon the magazines placed on the table by the bed. He glanced at the door again and then went over and picked one of them up. 

He leafed through the pages hungrily, a lot of it meant nothing to him but the pictures were interesting. When he'd gone through once he settled down to read it from the beginning, one article at a time. He kept an ear out for any sound of the other door opening.

* * *

Mindful that he was no longer alone in the apartment Wilson slipped on some sweats when he woke up. He was still yawning as he walked down the hallway. He always liked to sleep late on Sunday, the one day he tried to avoid the hospital if he could possibly help it. He wondered if Greg was awake yet and if so what he was up to. Wilson didn't have any firm plans for them for the day but he was pretty sure that Greg wouldn't say no to breakfast.

When he got to Greg's room the door was open and Greg was sitting inside on the chair, fully dressed, not doing anything - just sitting there. Wilson had a flashback to the time he and Bonnie had stayed with her parents for Thanksgiving. They hadn't been married then, just dating, and it was the first time he'd met her parents. He'd woken up early, long before Bonnie, but had been reluctant to start wandering around the house. Greg must feel like that, a guest in a stranger's house. 

“‘Morning Greg, want some breakfast?"

"Good morning. Yes, sir." Greg got up and walked slightly behind him as they made their way to the kitchen.

Once there Wilson waved Greg to a stool at the counter. Greg hesitated a little but then took a seat. Wilson noticed that he was still carrying his cane - he hadn't put it down as far as Wilson could remember since he'd given it to him. "So, what did you normally have for breakfast at that place?"

There was the usual slight pause and then Greg moved his shoulders it what might have been a shrug. "I think it was supposed to be oatmeal."

Again the flash of dry humour. Somewhere beneath that bland slavish facade was a real personality, Wilson was sure of it. He made a face. "That good huh? Well, I think we can do better than that. Eggs? Pancakes?" At Greg's eager look, quickly hidden, he took out the ingredients for both. 

"Did you sleep well? Have you been awake long?" 

"Yes, sir. The bed is very comfortable. I'm not sure when I woke up."

"Oh, I didn't put a clock in your room did I? Sorry, guess we're all so used to having phones these days. I'll find one for you." He cracked the eggs into a bowl. "When you wake up you're quite welcome to wander around out here. You live here now, my apartment is your apartment." He waved a hand around to indicate. "I want you to make yourself at home."

Greg looked doubtful and Wilson thought he was still missing something. Maybe he could find out what it was if he could find out more about what Greg's life used to be like. He put the eggs aside and started on the pancake batter. 

"Tell me about what it was like working for Rent-A-Slave. Did you have a set time for getting up?"

"Yes, sir. When they unlocked the door we had to get up and get changed and go to morning meal straight away."

"You were locked in your room at night?"

"Yes, sir. All the dorms were locked at night by the handlers, and then opened the next morning."

Wilson realised that Greg's door had been open since he arrived, even when he was changing clothes yesterday. He thought it had been a deliberate choice, now he realised it hadn't been. Greg had been expecting to be shut in the room when Wilson wanted him there, and only released when Wilson was ready for him. No wonder he hadn't left the room this morning. 

Well, it was time for Greg to realise that those times were behind him. Wilson had no intention of micro-managing his life like that. 

"You know you can shut your own door whenever you want, don't you? I'm not going to do it, and I'm sure as hell not going to lock you in at night. The lock is only there because there's some regulation that says it has to be, same as the bars. Shut it, keep it open, it's your choice."

Greg looked at him with wide eyes. Wilson was right - the idea of shutting his own door apparently hadn't even occurred to him. Wilson realised he really didn't have a clue what he was doing here with regards to Greg's mental state. He had thought he'd be concentrating on Greg's physical condition but maybe that was going to be the easy part. 

"I mean it Greg, you want to keep the door shut you keep it shut. You want to open it, you open it. And you can go in and out of the room whenever you want. It's not a cage, it's your bedroom - it's _yours_. "

There was a silence as Greg digested that. Wilson noticed that he was fiddling with the cane, swinging it a little in a half circle and then back, his fingers playing over its head. He stopped as soon as he saw Wilson watching him.

"Yes, sir." Greg said finally. Then he took a breath, as if girding himself for a difficult task. "And the bathroom, sir?"

Wilson nodded firmly. "And the bathroom. Shower when you want, take a piss whenever you want. I'd appreciate you kept them both fairly clean and tidy but it doesn't look like you have a problem with that."

"No, sir. I will keep them very clean, sir." He glanced towards the hallway, as if wondering if he could retreat there right now.

"I guess this is all a bit odd to you isn't it? I guess you've been living in dorms for a very long time. When was the last time you lived in a house or an apartment?"

"When I was free." Greg's voice was soft. 

"Do you remember it?"  
Greg shook his head. "If I try and remember I get sick. I'm not supposed to. They told me it was better if I didn't think about it."

"Maybe you can try now? Just a little. I'm here if you get sick."

"I don'... I don't know if I want to remember, sir." Greg said, beginning to fiddle with the cane again.

Wilson flipped some pancakes, thinking. He couldn't imagine not wanting to know - but then he couldn't imagine what Greg's life had been like since he was enslaved. Maybe the only way Greg could survive the present was to forget the past. That might change now his present had become more bearable but Wilson wasn't going to push it for now. He slid a plate of food across to Greg and then made up his own and took a seat at the counter next to him.

Greg started with his pancakes - at first approaching them cautiously but then more enthusiastically. It was clear that any further conversation was going to wait until after he'd finished eating, but that was fine with Wilson. Greg had already talked more this morning than he had for the entire day yesterday.

* * *

Greg's second day with his new owner passed quickly. Doctor Wilson asked him if he 'wouldn't mind' stacking the dishwasher. Luckily the doctor had shown him how yesterday and Greg painstakingly followed the instructions he'd been given then. He felt a sense of satisfaction in fulfilling the first task given to him by his new owner. So far Doctor Wilson hadn't really asked him to do any work, which was a change from his previous experience but also made him uneasy. If he couldn't prove useful to his new owner he might be sold back, or sold on to someone else. The last day had been enough to convince Greg that it would be his advantage to stay here. 

While the doctor showered and got dressed Greg cleaned the surfaces of the kitchen with the supplies that Wilson had pointed out the day before. The doctor had vaguely suggested that the kitchen could do with some cleaning before declaring he was going to have a shower. Greg had realised by now that any orders he received were going to be delivered in this manner so he wasted no time getting to work. 

As he worked he thought about what Wilson had suggested - that he try and remember his past. Being in this apartment was bringing up flashes of memories, almost as if he was looking at them from the outside. Of sitting at a breakfast counter like this one, while someone served him food. Of sleeping in a warm bed. The game on the television yesterday had been like that. He'd done that before he thought - many times. But when he tried to focus in on those memories he felt the familiar stab of pain in his head and the churning in his stomach. He pushed them away again and focused on the simple action of cleaning - letting the purely mechanical process lull him into that state of grey existence he'd been in for so many years.

Did he _want_ to remember? He wasn't sure. He knew that he had been in prison before he was r enslaved, they'd told him that. He'd been a violent criminal and given a chance at redemption by agreeing to be enslaved. He couldn't remember making that decision, and on many days he'd wondered how his younger self could possibly have thought it was a good idea. Prison couldn't be worse than slavery, he thought. Whatever he had been, whatever he had done, that had led to that decision was something he wasn't sure he ever wanted to face. 

When Doctor Wilson came back to the kitchen he had progressed to cleaning the walls. He paused in his work, waiting for correction - or instruction - but it didn't come. Instead Wilson started pulling out supplies and joined him. 

"About time I had a spring cleaning," he said. "But the game starts at one - it's a double header, we don't want to miss that."

They worked together for the rest of the morning. At first it made Greg nervous. He had never had a supervisor actually work beside him for such a long period of time. He gradually realised that Doctor Wilson wasn't judging his work, or making sure that Greg wasn't slacking off, he was just helping him do it. It was strange, and a little unsettling, but the work went easier. 

Doctor Wilson called a halt to their efforts at one and put another baseball game on television. He fetched them both lunch, and various snacks during the game and as Greg sat and watched the large television, and ate the food, he couldn't help thinking there had to be some sort of catch to this. His existence couldn't have gone from the sheer grind of working for Rent a Slave to this life of leisure in two days. It wasn't possible. He wasn't that lucky. Still, even if there was a catch he decided he was going to enjoy it while he could - and do everything he could to persuade Doctor Wilson that he was worth keeping.


	10. Chapter 10

Cuddy and Wilson generally met for lunch when their schedules allowed for it- which wasn't often. Cuddy made sure she had time for him that Monday though. After all, the weekend had been a big one for Wilson and she was curious to know how it had gone. She was predicting a trainwreck, later if not sooner, and Wilson might need a shoulder to cry on. 

He'd suggesting bringing their food back to her office and she'd agreed. There were some things that were better discussed out of the hearing of the hospital's amazingly efficient grapevine. 

"So, how did it go? Did you buy him a nice collar?"

"Not funny, Cuddy." Wilson stabbed at a stray tomato, luckily avoiding splattering it all over white blouse. Wilson was so distracted he hadn't even spared her his normal covert glance at her cleavage. He looked down at the phone he'd been holding like a lifeline. "Did you know there's an app to track the GPS on his collar? I could even shock him if I wanted to. All from the comfort of my nice office." He threw the phone down on the table. 

"I hope you set the collar to at least buzz if he starts wandering through Princeton." 

Wilson ran a hand through his hair. "I had to set the limit to just outside the apartment door and let him know. He looked at me like I had two heads - I don't think it would even occur to him to set foot outside the apartment without a direct order. He wouldn't even leave his room the first morning without me coming and getting him."

"He's a slave - he's used to having people tell him what to do. You just need to be clear in your orders to him. Did you leave him a schedule for the day?"

"What? No." Wilson shook his head. I'm not going to be like those Rent-A-Slave people, making him work hard all day. If he feels like doing any cleaning or whatever that's fine, but I'm not going to be ordering him around. I want him to be able to trust me."

"You want him to _like_ you." Cuddy said. It was one of Wilson's biggest problems - he wanted everyone to like him. Which of course they did, everybody adored Wilson. Year after year he was voted the hospital's most popular doctor. He could have had his pick of half the staff (and Cuddy knew he'd been through a fair few of them) but he never seemed to get really close to anyone, with the possible exception of herself. She wasn't sure what he was searching for - but he hadn't found it yet. 

"There's nothing wrong with that," Wilson said defensively. 

"Think about it this way. You run one of the largest departments in the hospital. Do you leave your staff without any instructions? Does everyone in the department just do whatever they want?"

"Of course not," Wilson said as Cuddy had expected. Wilson ran a tight ship, everyone knew that. Beneath that teddy bear exterior was a hard, but fair, taskmaster. Wilson hadn't become the youngest department head the hospital had ever had by accident. "But that's different. They're being paid, and they have a choice. Greg doesn't."

"So instead of that you've just left him in your apartment, probably told him to make himself at home, maybe threw in some vague hint that he could clean up a little bit if he really wanted to, and wished him a good day?"

Wilson's look said it all and she sighed. "You're a great guy, James, but you're far too soft hearted to be a slave owner."

"I'm not interested in being a 'slave owner'. I just want to help Greg, and I want to treat him like the human being he is. You should see him, Lisa. He's scared to do anything without permission. He watches me constantly, looking for my slightest sign of approval or disapproval. And yet, he's smart. I know he is. I showed him how to stack the dishwasher on Saturday and he has apparently decided that's his job now and he does it perfectly. Not a thing out of place." Wilson smiled and Cuddy rolled her eyes mentally. Wilson was totally anal about things like dishwasher stacking - they'd had a blow up about it during their very brief time together. She hadn't done it 'right' according to him. "Once he realises that I'm never going to hurt him, ever, he can start exploring what he wants to do with his time."

"I told you, I've had dealings with slaves. Your one is used to structure, and order. He'll be used to eating at a certain time, sleeping at a certain time, and working twelve hour days. You may not be doing him any favours by keeping him on a loose rein - he's not used to that sort of freedom. He won’t know what to do with himself."

"I'm not going to tell him what to do every minute of the day. I want him to get used to making his own decisions. Because otherwise it will be like saying I really do own him."

"News flash, Wilson, you really do." She glanced at her watch, and started packing up the lunch debris. "Now don't you wish you'd gotten that cat instead?"

* * *

Greg had missed the significance of Doctor Wilson purchasing him on a Saturday. Of course he’d been home with him for that day and the next - because it was the weekend. Normal people, _free_ people, worked during the week and had weekends off. Wilson had gone back to work that morning.

It had been a contrast to the easy pace of Sunday morning. Doctor Wilson was already awake when Greg woke, and making a large amount of noise by blow drying his hair. Greg had come out of his room - attracted by the noise - and stared at the doctor as he wielded the dryer. He'd never seen a man blow dry his hair before. Not one that he could remember anyway. He touched his own tightly cropped hair. No blow dryer needed there, not that anyone would give one to a slave anyway. 

After the blow drying Doctor Wilson had made them both a quick breakfast, just toast, to Greg's disappointment, after the pancakes and eggs yesterday. Then he'd reminded Greg that he wasn't allowed outside the apartment - as if he needed reminding of that - and told him to make himself at home, clean up a little if he 'wanted to', and have a good day. Then he was gone and Greg was alone in the apartment.

It took a moment for his situation to sink in. He was alone. Truly alone for the first time in a long time. He wasn't working amongst other slaves, with a supervisor - or handler - or guard - standing ready to check he was working hard enough, and doing whatever he was doing correctly. He wasn't even in Doctor Wilson's company as he had been all weekend. There was just him alone in this whole, wonderful apartment, _for the entire day_. 

He hadn't even been given some onerous task to fulfil. Something that Doctor Wilson could check to make sure Greg had completed when he came home from work. He couldn't fail to complete Doctor Wilson's orders because the doctor hadn't given him any.

Of course that didn't mean that he was automatically exempt from punishment. Greg had been punished before for not fulfilling orders that weren't explicit - things that he somehow should have _just known_ that he was supposed to have done. However he was beginning to believe that his new owner was not like any of his previous owners. Doctor Wilson so far had been nothing but generous and fair with him. He didn't believe Doctor Wilson would punish him for not fulfilling an order he hadn't given.

He'd stacked the dishwasher while the doctor was getting ready for work so his only clearly assigned task was already dealt with. He would clean the apartment - both because Doctor Wilson had suggested that he 'tidy the place up a little if he wanted', and because Greg wanted to make himself useful enough here that he wouldn't be sold, at least not for a while. 

Before he started though he thought he could spare a few minutes to just explore this freedom. As a precaution he pulled out some cleaning materials ready, he'd become expert over the years in making it appear at all times that he was working hard - even in those rare moments of rest that he sometimes managed when the handlers were out of sight. 

That done, and keeping one ear open for sounds of anyone entering, he wandered the apartment. Although he'd now been here for two days he hadn't really explored it. He had kept his focus on his owner, and what his owner might want of him, rather than his surroundings. Now he examined it more closely. 

The living area held both a sound system of some kind, and the large television screen. He'd seen such televisions before, passing glimpses in various workplaces, but never sat down and watched one as he had with Wilson. The picture quality was much improved from the television sets that had existed before he was enslaved. The device that the doctor used to control it was covered with buttons and symbols - most of which were meaningless to him. He had watched yesterday to see how the device was turned on, and he thought he could replicate that. Turning it on was a risk he wasn't quite prepared to take today though. There were other things that interested him more.

The other main feature of the room were the bookcases. There were two large ones, filled with books, and Greg was drawn to those.

He'd read both the magazines that had been left in his room, twice over now. They had been exciting - an enticing glimpse into a world that had been closed to him for years. He'd puzzled over both the articles and the adverts, trying to discern the meaning of words and products he didn't recognise, or had never examined closely. Some of the gadgets were very intriguing, although some he saw no practical purpose for. 

But they were only two magazines. Here there were rows of books and magazines, more than he'd seen in one place for a long time. He touched them lightly with his fingertips his eyes scanning their titles. Some appeared to be fiction, but the majority were medical texts. Heavy books, with long titles. He looked around instinctively but nobody was watching of course. He was here alone. He would be for some time.

Carefully, very carefully, he eased one of the books off the shelf and sat down in a chair with it. 

He turned to the first page, careful not to crease or damage it. His eyes scanned the list of contents. To his surprise most of the words there were familiar - like old friends he had long forgotten. _He understood them_.

* * *

_Greg lay on the examination table in the clinic. It was a special slaves-only clinic run by the hospital closest to the company he was owned by. He was naked, having been stripped for an examination of his leg and for the insertion of a catheter. The doctor hadn't bothered with much preparation for the catheter, it had hurt worse than his leg going in and was still very uncomfortable. His hands were manacled to either side of the table. Other than those procedures he'd been left alone for some time._

_The pain had started two days ago. A sharp pain in his thigh when he was finishing his shift. He had rubbed at it, suspecting that he'd merely overworked the muscle. By lights out that evening the pain was so strong he could barely sleep. The supervisor in the morning had eyed him suspiciously when he limped to his work station but told him to stay on duty - there were shorthanded that day._

_By the afternoon the pain was so bad that he found himself unable to work - his hands were shaking and to his shame and fear he had been sick at his work station. He'd been begrudgingly brought to the waiting room of the clinic and dumped there._

_After a two hour wait he'd been taken into this room for an examination. A very young doctor - probably on his first posting out of his internship had seen him. He'd prodded at the leg, causing Greg to writhe in pain, and then he’d inserted the catheter. Then he'd left him alone._

_Greg moaned as the pain intensified. He twisted in his bonds, his back arching off the table as he tried to find a position that would help._

_"Lie still, slave." The doctor had returned, this time with Greg's handler. The doctor crossed to the catheter bag and picked it up. Greg could see it from his position - there was fluid in the bag, but it was a reddish brownish colour._

_The doctor frowned at it._

_"I thought he might be malingering... or drug seeking. But there's something wrong. His kidneys are shutting down."_

_"Can you fix him up, doc? He needs to get back to work. We're short staffed."_

_"I don't even know what's wrong with him yet."_

_Greg stared at the bag, trying to distract himself from the pain. Red was the colour of blood, yellow was the colour of urine. This fluid was neither. Something clicked in his head and he knew the answer._

_"Muscle death." He'd spoken aloud and both the doctor and the handler turned to him._

_"The slave said something," the doctor said - as surprised as if the table had started talking._

_"Dying muscle leaks myoglobin," Greg continued, feeling a wave of satisfaction even through the pain. He didn't know how he knew but he knew. "It’s toxic to the kidneys."_

_"Be quiet, Greg." The handler scolded. "I'm sorry, Doc. He's normally pretty placid. He's probably a bit spooked by being here. These slaves like their routine. Do you want me to gag him?"_

_The doctor was still staring at him. "He could be right. It fits. How did you know that, slave?"_

_"I used to..." Greg felt a familiar sharp pain go through his head, even drowning out the pain in his leg. He rolled his head to one side and began to vomit again, his whole body shaking and trembling. The doctor called out for a nurse and in the process of cleaning the mess up his question remained unanswered._

* * *

Greg ran his fingers over the words again. He knew them. He remembered them. Just as he had known what was wrong with his leg. When he tried to think where he'd first learned the words the familiar pain came again and he pushed the thought away. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he could read this book if he wanted. He could read all these books. 

He held it tightly to himself for a moment, smiling. Then he carefully closed it and put it back on the shelf. He had work to do.

* * *

When Wilson returned that evening it was to an immaculate apartment. He prided himself on keeping the apartment clean but now it shone. He'd had a taste of what Greg considered 'cleaning' when he worked with him on the Sunday but left to himself Greg had obviously given the place an extremely thorough going over - Wilson wondered if he'd time to rest or eat. 

He found Greg in the kitchen, scrubbing at a small mark on the tiles. He was dressed in his jeans and a tee-shirt, his cane beside him on the floor. He stopped work and knelt up when Wilson approached.

"Greg... you didn't need to do all this." Wilson said, feeling guilty. He'd never meant Greg to spend the whole day cleaning. "Kneeling on the floor like that must hurt your leg. Get up and put those things away. Work's done for the day."

"Yes, sir," Greg said and Wilson fancied he heard a touch of disappointment in his voice. Surely Greg didn't want to keep cleaning? Greg pushed himself to his feet and busied himself with putting the supplies away. Wilson contemplated the immaculate kitchen. If Greg had been working all day he was probably looking forward to dinner, and expecting Wilson to supply something. 

Now there was something he could ask Greg to do in the future. And it would give him a useful skill later, for when he was free. 

"Do you know how to cook, Greg?"

Greg looked a little startled, and then doubtful. "I saw you cook the pancakes and eggs yesterday. I think I could do those if you want me to, sir."

Wilson shook his head. "No, I didn't mean now. I just mean generally. If you're going to be home while I'm working it would be good if you could put something on for dinner. Sometimes I don't get home until late, and don't feel like cooking. Would you like to do that?"

Again the odd hesitation in Greg's reply, and a puzzled look in his eyes. Wilson wondered who the last person was who asked him what he would _like_ to do.

"Yes, sir." He said eventually. It was impossible to tell if he wanted to do it or not - clearly Wilson's slightest suggestions were being taken as direct orders. Still, it was something for him to do - and if it didn't work out Wilson could just tell him not to keep doing it. 

He decided on a simple pasta dish for that night and this time actively involved Greg in cooking it. Again he was struck by his intelligence - Greg quickly picked up on every technique he showed him, remembered where everything was and was careful to put everything back where it belonged. He also seemed genuinely interested so Wilson found himself getting out a couple of cookbooks and showing them to him.

"You can look through these, have a go at some of the recipes. Anything you need that I haven't got I can pick up. Just make me a list." He opened a drawer and took out a folder of instruction manuals. "These are the manuals to everything in the apartment if you ever don't know how something works." Greg seemed drawn to both the books and the manuals - glancing through them quickly and then putting them carefully to one side on the bench, as if they were precious. He resumed slicing tomatoes - his hands working swiftly - but he kept looking at the books.

"You know, if you ever want anything to read you just have to help yourself," Wilson said - waving a hand at the bookcases. It should have occurred to him that a slave might not be used to having ready access to reading material. "I put a couple of magazines in your room but you're welcome to take any that are lying around to read - I have several subscriptions. You'll probably find the medical journals will put you to sleep though." He laughed. "There are some novels as well. I have more but they're in storage. Let me know what you like and I can pick some more up for you."

Greg's eyes flicked to the bookcases although he kept on with the food preparation.

"Thank you, sir," he said eventually in his quiet voice.

Dinner turned out well. They ate in front of the television - a habit Wilson had gotten into since his separation from Julie. He showed Greg how to operate the set, and demonstrated the use of TIVO and the DVD player. The instructions for both were in the folder he'd given Greg earlier, but a practical demonstration beat reading the manual anyway. Greg didn't say much but he appeared to absorb the information rapidly.

Wilson put on a movie and started on some paperwork while Greg watched the screen. Wilson noticed that he didn't seem to be paying much attention, instead fidgeting with his cane - which never seemed to be more than an inch from his side.

"Don't like the movie, Greg? We can watch something else." Wilson paused the machine and Greg immediately apologised for his inattention. "It's okay, if there is something else you want to be doing you can go do it. Television watching isn't compulsory."

"No, sir." Greg said seriously. Then he glanced at the bookcases again. "Wilson, can I take a book to my room?" He looked down at the floor and then back up at Wilson. His expression was at once tentative, and a little hopeful.

"Of course - help yourself. It's getting late anyway, I have to finish off these charts but then I'll be going to bed myself."

Greg stood and moved over to the bookcase nearest to him and Wilson watched as he quickly took a paperback novel off the shelf without even really looking at it. He held it tightly to him and moved off, pausing in the doorway.

"Thank you, Wilson."

"You're welcome, Greg. Sleep well."

When Wilson went off to bed he noticed that Greg had shut his door for the first time.


	11. Chapter 11

Over the next few days Greg worked out a routine for himself. He'd get up at the same time as Doctor Wilson, get dressed quickly and be ready for anything the doctor wanted him to do - which wasn't much, basically it consisted of making coffee and a simple breakfast for them both. Doctor Wilson gave him some painkillers with breakfast, and then left a dose for Greg to take in the middle of the day. 

After the doctor had left for work Greg stacked the dishwasher and scrubbed the kitchen clean. Then he gave the whole apartment a clean and tidy until it was spotless. After that he went and had a shower in his bathroom. He hadn't gotten over the wonderful experience of having his own bathroom and being able to shower in private. The warm water was soothing, both to his leg and to his whole body. Between the cane, the consistent doses of painkillers, and his much reduced work schedule he was feeling better than he had in years. He was able to sleep a lot better now, and the good food was helping as well. He had been owned by Doctor Wilson for less than a week, but the change in his living standard was remarkable. If it wasn't for the collar that still sat around his neck he would be almost happy.

After his shower he dressed in a button down shirt and jeans and made his way out to the kitchen for lunch. 

Lunch was another novelty to him. At Rent-A-Slave the slaves had been allowed a ten minute break from work, a bottle of water and a ration bar for a midday meal. If they were behind on their work they didn't even receive that. 

At first he'd been wary about helping himself to Doctor Wilson's food - fearing that he would take too much, or the wrong thing and be punished. As a slave he'd had all his food given to him - with no choice whatsoever - for many years. Like all the slaves he'd kept his eyes open for any food he could steal that wouldn't be missed - usually scraps of food discarded by free people - but openly helping himself was a different matter. The first day he had taken only small amounts from already opened packets, gradually he had become bolder. 

Today he poured himself a glass of water (cold and fresh) and made himself a sandwich. He ate at the kitchen counter, careful not to spill anything on his clothes. He had selected a magazine to read while eating lunch, from Wilson's seeming never ending supply of them. 

In his free time when Wilson was at work he'd been reading the medical texts. They were slow going, as he kept coming upon new words and technology that was unfamiliar to him. Also reading them sometimes stirred up the adverse reaction he had to trying to remember anything of his old life. Whatever he had been it must have had something to do with medicine. Sometimes the assault from his own mind and body was enough to make him put down the textbook and take something easier off the shelf, but he always returned to them. 

He was careful not to let Doctor Wilson know he was studying the medical books. However tolerant he had been so far Greg suspected that a slave trying to read books that belonged to doctors would be a step too far for him. While he was at home Greg stuck to his magazines and to novels. While Wilson did paperwork or worked on his computer in the evening Greg read and kept an eye on whatever was on television.

Television was at once both fascinating, and frustrating. The people on the screen had little relationship to himself and his life and he found himself growing quickly annoyed with them, and their concerns. But they did showcase the modern world - one that he had been shut out of for so long - and he absorbed all the changes that had happened since he was enslaved. He'd seen glimpses of cell phones, and computers when free people used them but the television programs gave him time to observe their usage more closely. He found out that the GPS technology that powered his collar, had other uses besides the control and punishment of errant slaves. 

Once lunch was finished and cleared away, he took a seat on the couch in the living area and read for an hour or so. When the phone rang he answered it, and reassured Doctor Wilson that he was alive, and still in the apartment. The phone calls had come every day. Doctor Wilson didn't seem to trust the collar to do its job of restricting Greg to the apartment - he liked to check in and make sure Greg was still there. Greg always made sure to answer the phone promptly. 

After reading and doing another tidy up of the apartment Greg went to the kitchen and started dinner. His first dinner had been a variant of the pasta dish that Wilson had cooked and it had been... not good. It was still better than anything Greg had eaten in his years as a slave but it had obviously not been up to Wilson's standards. When he saw that Wilson could barely eat it Greg had lost his own appetite and waited for Wilson to get angry at him. Instead Wilson had just pushed his plate aside and then helped Greg clean up. While they were doing that he'd told Greg about the first meal he'd cooked himself - which had culminated in him setting his mother's kitchen on fire. Then he'd made a couple of suggestions about where Greg might have gone wrong. Together they'd cooked some eggs and had them instead. The next night Greg had made something edible, and the night after that he'd made something that had made Wilson smile in pleasure. 

When his preparation for dinner was finished Greg wandered over to the window in the living room. It overlooked the street and from there he could watch the free people coming and going. Although he was very grateful to Doctor Wilson for buying him, and how he had treated him since, Greg was beginning to feel a little confined within the four walls of this apartment. He hadn't been outside since Saturday. Every company that had owned him had made sure the slaves got some time outside several times a week, even if it was usually just walking around a dirty courtyard. He wouldn't trade where he was now for any of those places, but he liked to stand here and watch and imagine what it must be like to be able to walk around freely where and when you wanted to.

* * *

Wilson ate the last mouthful of his dinner happily. Encouraging Greg to cook had been a good idea. After the first disastrous meal Greg had improved rapidly and tonights dinner had been excellent. He knew Greg had been worried about making mistakes at first, and what Wilson's reaction to them would be, but he seemed to be enjoying the task now. Wilson had to admit it was nice to come home to a spotless apartment and know that dinner would soon be served. 

He was enjoying Greg's company now as well. Each day Greg was becoming more and more comfortable with him although he still had a tendency to hang on Wilson's every word and watch him all the time for Wilson's reaction to anything he did. 

He'd made it clear to Greg that he didn't expect, or want him, to spend every minute of the day cleaning the apartment. Reading was okay, watching television was okay, just sitting around doing nothing was okay. He noticed that the apartment was still immaculate every time he returned to it but there were signs that Greg was also doing other things. He'd apparently read through the entire folder of instructions for one thing. Greg had asked him where two of the appliances were and Wilson had had to confess they'd long since been discarded but he hadn't thrown the instructions out. Greg had actually looked a little disapproving at that news, much to Wilson's secret amusement. 

"That was great, Greg. I can't believe you've only been cooking for four days - you've picked it up so quickly. Do you enjoy doing it?" 

Greg looked surprised - like he always looked when Wilson asked him something personal. Then he nodded.

"Yes, sir." He paused again and added, almost shyly. "It's better than cleaning the hospital bathrooms."

WIlson let out a surprised laugh. "I bet it is. Speaking of the hospital - I'm taking you in with me tomorrow. I've made you an appointment at the physical therapy department. Somebody is going to look over the scans of your leg, do an examination and give you some exercises to do."

Greg immediately tensed. "My leg is fine, sir. I can work."

"Yeah, I know you can work, but I want to see if you can be made more comfortable, and whether they can help you with mobility. Remember I said that one of the reasons I... that you came to live here was to help with that?"

"Your have helped, sir. It's much better than it was." Greg gestured to the cane by his side. 

"I just want a professional to look at it." It hadn't been easy persuading the chief therapist to fit Greg in. Wilson had chosen a Saturday so there would be less people around, and so that he could take Greg straight home after his appointment but McLoughlin had taken some persuading to allow a slave to receive treatment there. Wilson had had to call in favours and he was still getting the most junior therapist for Greg. The insurance he had for Greg didn't cover physical therapy so he'd been getting a hefty bill from the hospital as well, even with staff discount.

"It will be good to get out of here for a while anyway, won't it? You must be getting a bit tired of being cooped up in here." Wilson said. It had occurred to him that he needed to work in some time outside for Greg. He could hardly expect him to stay cooped up in an apartment 24/7. The hospital wasn't exactly Disneyland but at least it would be a change of scenery. 

"Yes, sir." Greg still sounded unconvinced.

"Did you have any therapy at all - when you had the infarction?" Wilson wondered how he had been treated back then - and whether that was behind his reluctance to get it looked at now. From what he'd seen, and found out, slaves didn't fare well in the medical system.

"They had to give me some. I couldn't walk after the operation. The therapist showed me how to walk and gave me some exercises to do if my leg was stiff. They gave me some pain medication to take when I was still in the hospital." Greg looked down at his leg, rubbing slowly at the thigh, as he often did. "One of the therapists told me I should 'visualize the healing'." He looked back up with a small smile.

"Well, I think we can do better than that for you." Wilson stood up and began clearing the dinner things away, Greg quickly got to his feet and helped. They made short work of the clean up and then Wilson reluctantly sat at the table and pulled out his laptop and the folder of budget reports he'd brought home with him. "I've got to get this done, Cuddy is breathing down my neck for the figures, I need to email them to her tonight. If you want to watch television or whatever don't let me stop you. I'll be at this all night." 

Greg hovered for a moment, looking a little disappointed - and Wilson had a thought. "Would you like to help me? I have some figures that need inputting on the spreadsheet. If you could do that it would make it quicker. Have you used a spreadsheet before?" 

Greg looked hesitant, like he usually did when Wilson asked him about things he might have done when he was free. Though, come to think of it, Greg was enslaved nearly twenty years ago. Any computers or spreadsheets he might have used then would bear little resemblance to the current incarnations, even if he could remember using them.

"I'm not sure," Greg said hesitantly. 

"Okay, well, it's not hard. Take a seat and I'll show you."

Greg readily took a seat next to him and Wilson showed him the basics, and which figures he wanted inputting. Then he went back to reading through some reports. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Greg. At first he was slow, hunting around the keyboard for what he wanted and frowning at the screen. Gradually he began to pick up confidence until he was engrossed in what he was doing. As usual it was difficult to tell whether it was something he wanted to be doing but it wasn't Wilson's first choice of a Friday night entertainment activity either. If Greg could help him with things like this it would be handy, and also give Greg some more skills for later. 

Pleased with the outcome Wilson concentrated on his own work and the evening passed rapidly.

* * *

Greg dressed in what he thought of as his 'best' clothes the next morning for the trip to the hospital. He could pull the shirt collar up around his slave collar and partially hide it. He had realised how uncomfortable Doctor Wilson was about being seen with a slave when they went out shopping and hoped that this would help somewhat. 

He wasn't looking forward to the trip. He didn't like it when people focused on his leg and previous 'assessments' of the injury had not been pleasant. It seemed pointless - there was nothing anyone could do at this point. Greg had examined the scar himself, and felt the lack of muscle beneath the skin. Short of growing that muscle back what could be done?

It was not his place to object to the excursion though. It was something Doctor Wilson wanted done to Greg so it would happen. 

The car trip, like previously, was the best part. Greg really enjoyed being in the car, being driven through the city. Nobody could see he was a slave like this and there were no expectations of him. Nothing could go wrong, he just had to sit and enjoy the trip. He had vague memories of driving himself, from the time when he was free. Maybe one day, if he was ever freed, he could do it again. He didn't like to think about the possibility too much. He knew he still had several years of his sentence left and wasn't sure what the process was then - Doctor Wilson currently owned him. If he was still in possession of Greg when that time came would he have a choice about giving him up? That was something they never taught them in slave training, and although some of the slaves talked about it sometimes none of them had a clear idea of the procedure. A few had claimed to know what the law was on the subject once, before they were enslaved - but Greg knew that laws could be changed.

Even if he were freed, what would he do? He had no money, and would have nowhere to go. Any relatives he might have had once would be long scattered, and probably wouldn't want anything to do with a criminal who had been turned into a slave. 

No, it was better if he didn't think about the future, or the past. 

They pulled up at the front of the hospital. When he'd been here previously the truck had pulled up around the back and all he'd seen was the loading dock before they'd been hustled inside to work. He stuck close to Wilson as they made their way in the front door. There was a security guard standing just inside the door and he greeted Doctor Wilson and then narrowed his eyes at Greg.

"This your slave, doc?"

"Yes. He has an appointment." Doctor Wilson sounded a little annoyed and Greg looked down at the ground. Guards didn't like it if you looked them in the eye.

"Just have to pat him down - standard procedure with slaves. You'll need to stick close to him too. Can't have slaves roaming around the hospital by themselves." The guard turned to Greg. "Stand over there, slave, and put your hands on your head."

"His name is Greg." Wilson said tersely. "Go ahead, Greg. Let's get this over with."

Greg moved away and did as directed. At least he wasn't being told to strip for the search. The guard briskly ran his hands over his body and felt in the pockets of his clothing. 

"Okay, that's fine, Doctor Wilson. We'll have to do him when he leaves too. If you need to put him somewhere while you're working we have a cell in the basement we can use for that."

"That won't be necessary. Come on, Greg. We don't want to be late for your appointment."

They moved off and once they were in the elevator Wilson apologised to him.

"Sorry, Greg. I didn't know they were going to do that."

"It doesn't matter, sir."

"It matters to me." Wilson sounded angry. 

Greg didn't know what to say to that. The pat down was such a little thing, compared to what it could have been. Wilson looked at him and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'm not mad at you, Greg. Just the whole thing. It isn't right that you're treated like that." The elevator stopped and Wilson ushered him off. "PT is just down the corridor."

They were quickly ushered into a private room when they entered the therapy department. The nurse on the reception desk had raised an eyebrow as she looked from Greg to Doctor Wilson but had refrained from saying anything. After they had been there a few minutes a woman came in, wearing scrubs and pushing her hair behind her ears. She was considerably shorter than either Greg or Wilson, and a little on the plump side. 

"Doctor Wilson? I'm Jessica Reilly." They shook hands and her gaze went to Greg. "This is my patient? Greg? He's your slave?"

"Yes. We need an assessment of an old condition." Wilson handed over some scans and notes and launched into some technical detail about Greg's infarction. The lady looked them over, nodding her head as she listened to Wilson. Then she looked up at Greg. 

"Slip your pants down, Greg and sit down on the bench. Let's have a look."

He reluctantly lowered his jeans and sat down where she indicated. The ugly scar on his leg was exposed to their view. Doctor Reilly briskly examined it - feeling around the edges and getting him to move his leg this way and that. More than once the leg screamed in pain and by the time she was finished he was sweating. She eyed him. 

"Do you have a lot of pain, Greg?"

"Yes, ma'am." He said honestly and hurried on. "But it's a lot better since Doctor Wilson gave me the cane." He lifted the cane that was still in his hand. His hand was shaking slightly and he tried to still it.

She glanced at the cane.

"You weren't using one before?"

"No, ma'am." 

"What about pain relief? What is he taking?" She asked Doctor Wilson and he detailed what he was giving Greg. 

"He can't have narcotics without being admitted to a hospital," Wilson added. 

She nodded. "It's hard enough for long term pain patients to get what they need, let alone a slave. But if he's managed this long without them I wouldn't start him on them anyway without a further acute injury. What he's taking sounds good - but monitor his pain levels. Now, about this cane. Pull your pants back up, Greg and let's see you walk around with the cane."

He walked the length of the room, conscious of both pairs of eyes on him, he tried to keep his movements as fluid as possible. He didn't want to lose the cane now.

"Give me the cane and walk without it for a bit." She held out her hand for the cane and Greg reluctantly surrendered it. He hadn't been without it since Wilson had given it to him. The lurching steps he took reminded him of what an improvement it had been. He'd only gone a few steps when she came up beside him and pressed the cane back into his hand.

"Okay, Greg, that's enough. Just take a seat again."

She picked up a blue file folder and made some notes on it. "Bring him in for appointments once a week, same time as today. We'll work on some strengthening and flexibility exercises. It will hurt but it will help in the long run. In the meantime, get some heating pads for him. Find a way to have some breakthrough pain medication on hand if needed. It might stop him bashing his hand against a wall to get relief." 

Greg stared at her, worried. How had she known that he had sometimes resorted to that as a quick means of relief? She smiled and picked up his left hand. 

"You do the left hand so that you can still work. The damage is fairly evident, if you know what to look for. Tell Doctor Wilson if the pain gets that bad again, he'll help you."

She smiled quickly at both of them and then swept out of the room.

After they had made their way back out of the hospital Wilson veered away from the parking lot where the car was and towards a large park. He led them to a wooden picnic table and sat down. Greg sat down next to him wondering what they were doing. The park was fairly quiet with only a few people running around the track that led around the outside. 

"Sometimes I like to come here and think - or just get out of the hospital for a few minutes," Wilson explained. "I thought you might like to spend some time out here and enjoy the fresh air."

Greg took a deep breath and sat back, feeling the gentle spring breeze on his skin. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, and it was a beautiful day. 

"Thank you, sir. I would like that."


	12. Chapter 12

Greg looked around at the stacks of brown boxes and the pieces of furniture scattered throughout the storage unit. Wilson had brought him here, on a Sunday afternoon, telling him he 'had a surprise for him'. Greg had been a little apprehensive but so far Wilson's 'surprises' had been nothing but good. The man in the office at the front of the complex had been reluctant to allow Greg back into where the units were but Wilson had insisted and in the end he'd waved them through.

All the things in the unit were Wilson's, in addition to everything he had in the apartment. But these stayed here, where he couldn't see them or use them, and apparently had to pay to store them. Greg owned a cane and some clothes. Except for he didn't own _them_ , not really. Slaves couldn't own things. 

He peeked into a half open box and saw stacks of old medical journals. His fingers twitched to explore them. He wished he could ask for them but he still hadn't told Wilson about his medical knowledge. 

"Ha! I knew it was in here." Wilson emerged from his exploration of another box and handed his find to Greg with a grin.

Greg looked down at the object in his hands. It was a laptop computer.

"This is yours?"

"Not anymore. Now it's yours." Wilson looked at him with an expectant air. "I bought it for a Christmas gift for my wife, but well... we weren't together at Christmas so I never gave it to her. You can have it and use it while I'm at work."

"To do work for you, sir?" He'd been doing a little data entry and similar things on Wilson's computer, under his direction. Maybe Wilson wanted him to do more of that.

"To do anything you like. Hell, play solitaire all day long if you want to. But if you get sick of that I was thinking there are some online courses you can do. You must get a bit bored being stuck in the apartment all day."

After the first visit to the hospital and the park, Wilson had taken to going out with Greg for a walk around the neighbourhood most evenings. He said he needed the physical exercise after working all day but Greg suspected that he was doing it so that _Greg_ would get some exercise and some fresh air. He didn't know why Doctor Wilson tried to cover up the reason but he appreciated the opportunity to get out of the apartment.   
It wasn't all pleasant. Several times Greg had been mocked by someone who had spotted his collar. He was aware that Wilson had been the target of some disapproving looks as well. He wasn't sure why free people would dislike Wilson taking a slave for a walk. But then the ways of free people were often a mystery to him.

The visits back to the hospital for therapy hadn't been easy. The exercises ramped up his pain level to the point where it had been before Wilson had bought him - an unpleasant reminder of the past. He couldn't see or feel any improvement in his leg from the exercises but the therapist had said it would take time. After each visit Wilson had given him a different type of pill which dulled the pain and made him tired. Greg knew that it was a narcotic but he wasn't sure which one. He didn't know how Wilson had obtained it but he was grateful for the effort. 

These were only minor concerns though. The improvement in his life was so great that he barely registered the few drawbacks. The apartment was at a standard now that he didn't need to spend much time cleaning at all, and he enjoyed preparing food for their dinner. After reading through Wilson's cookbook he'd turned to the television and found some cooking shows to watch. Wilson had picked up a wide variety of different foodstuffs and Greg had become more and more adventurous in his cooking. Just eating such tasty foods after so many years of eating bland, poorly cooked, food, was an experience in itself. 

The idea of being bored living such a life was beyond him but the computer would open up even more vistas. Wilson had said that he could 'go online'. Greg had seen enough modern television, and read enough magazines, by now to know what that meant. 

He held the computer against his chest, afraid of dropping his precious burden on the hard floor. Wilson dug a case out of the box and handed it to him. Greg carefully put the computer into the case. 

Wilson was continuing to hunt through boxes. "I've got some cooking stuff in here somewhere. We might need that at the rate you're going. That's an idea for an online course you could do too. Good cooks are always in demand." He started putting his finds into another box, presumably one they would take with them.

"Wilson?"

Wilson looked up. "Yes?"

"Why do you have so many things here? Why haven't you taken them to the apartment if you own them?"

Wilson looked around the unit and sighed. "A lot of this stuff has been with me through three marriages, I guess when I moved into the apartment I didn't want to bring it along. But I didn't want to just throw it out either."

" _Three_ marriages?" Greg hadn't known that.

Wilson looked a little embarrassed. "Yeah, that's what my mom says."

Wilson was a few years younger than Greg. If he'd already had three marriages they must have been either short or in fairly quick succession. He wondered how long it would be before Wilson would be looking for another wife, and what would happen to him then.

"Oh, hey, look at this! My old guitar." Wilson was taking a guitar out of carrying case. It was an acoustic one, a basic model. Wilson strummed it. "My brothers and I used to play a bit. We were going to form a band." He smiled a little sadly. "Except Danny... well, it didn't work out anyway."

Greg stared at the guitar, his hands reaching for it without conscious thought. "Sir, could I..."

Wilson handed it over readily. "Do you know how to play?"

Greg nestled the guitar into his body, his fingers stroking the strings. The guitar was badly out of tune and would never have produced a great tone, even in its best days, but the sound echoed around the storage unit and brought a smile to his face. He knew this. This felt right. The guitar felt like an old friend. He did some riffs and ran through some chords, fingers moving surely and quickly. 

"You do play! Better than I ever did anyway." Wilson grinned. "We'll take it with us, and get it tuned." He held out his hands and Greg reluctantly surrendered the guitar. Wilson zipped it up into the soft carry case and put it next to the box. 

An hour or so later, burdened with several boxes of Wilson's belongings they went back to the car. Greg sat in the front seat but kept glancing around to the back where both the guitar and the computer sat.

* * *

Wilson sighed as he shut the door behind his latest patient. It never got any easier to tell people they were dying, and probably within a few months. His patient had actually _thanked_ him for telling her the news. Wilson wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse. 

"Something the matter, Wilson?" He looked up as he heard Cuddy's voice, and saw her standing in front of his desk. He hadn't heard her come in. 

"No." He shook his head. "Did you want something?"

Cuddy took a seat in front of his desk. "You know there are rumours all around the hospital about you and this slave? You've been bringing him here?"

He felt his temper flare up. What was so damned interesting about him having a slave? You'd think some of these people had never seen a slave before.

"He's coming in once a week for physical therapy. Which _I'm_ paying for. So that maybe, one day, he can walk without searing pain in his leg. Security search him every damned time we go in and out, I stay with him during therapy, and he's never more than a few feet from me. Nobody can possibly object to that."

Cuddy shrugged. "Some people believe that we shouldn't be treating any slaves here at all."

" 'Some people' are assholes."

"Not arguing with you there. Truthfully I came down here just to get away for a few minutes. I've had department heads in and out of my office all day today, complaining about the budget. I don't know how they think I'm going to pull funds out of my ass for them." She glared at him when he opened his mouth. "You weren't going to say anything about its enormous size, were you, Wilson?"

He shook his head solemnly. "The thought never entered my mind. Do you want another set of eyes on it - the budget, not your ass - before the Board meeting tomorrow? See if there is any tweaking we can do?"

"That would be great. I've been staring at it so long my eyes are going square. But I'm tied up for the rest of the day."

"No problem, it's been a while since we've had dinner together. Come and eat at my place tonight and we can work on it afterwards." He'd been wanting to find a way of introducing Greg to a few other people anyway - his entire life shouldn't consist of Wilson and Wilson only. "But Cuddy, Greg will be eating with us - it's his home too. If that's a problem..."

She gave him a hard stare. "What, do you think I'd expect him to eat out of a bowl on the floor? Give me some credit, Wilson. If I can make nice at a dinner party with that creep Sanders I can manage to have dinner with a slave." She glanced at her watch and stood up. "Besides, I'm intrigued by this 'Greg'. He must be pretty special for you to have done all this for him."

"He is."

* * *

Greg put down the lid of his laptop a little reluctantly. True to his word Wilson had introduced him to the internet and Greg had dived in head first. The wealth of knowledge available was amazing. Any question he had, anything he wanted to know, it was all available on the internet, at his fingertips. And there were _so_ many things he wanted to know. Except for vague hints here and there he'd virtually missed twenty years worth of history. He had a lot to catch up on. 

Wilson had rung him earlier in the afternoon, saying he was bringing Doctor Cuddy home to have dinner with them before they did some work. He'd asked Greg if he minded making enough food for three. Greg had, of course, said that he didn't mind. 

He felt apprehensive about the visit. Normal people didn't treat slaves like Doctor Wilson treated them. He knew that Doctor Cuddy was Doctor's Wilson superior at the hospital - in fact, she was in charge of the entire hospital. She had no doubt employed the service of Rent-A-Slave which had led to Greg being at the hospital. He wondered if she knew that Doctor Wilson had purchased him and he would be there tonight. 

He was in the middle of preparing dinner when Wilson came home. 

"Hey. Cuddy will be along in about half an hour. How's dinner going?"

"Good, sir." He stirred the pot he had simmering. Wilson grabbed a beer out of the fridge for himself and offered one to him. Greg shook his head. He knew it was unusual for slaves to drink alcohol, and although Wilson allowed it, he didn't want Doctor Cuddy to smell it on him and cause trouble. He didn't know if that were possible but he wasn't willing to chance it. 

"Sir, I can go to my room when Doctor Cuddy arrives." He offered, hoping Wilson would say yes. 

Wilson frowned at him. "This is your home, Greg. I'm not chasing you out because I have a guest. Besides, I want her to meet you."

"Sir, she may not appreciate meeting me. I'm just a slave, after all."

"Don't put yourself down like that. You're my roommate and, I hope, my friend."

Friend. He tossed the word over in his mind. Greg wasn't sure what to make of it. Wilson _owned_ him. He was friendly and kind towards him, and they had spent some enjoyable time together but nothing would change the fact that Greg was a slave, and Wilson was his owner. 

"She knows about you, if that's what you're worried about. And I told her you'd be eating with us. After dinner we'll be working on the budget so it's fine if you want to go and do something else but you're not getting out of dinner. After all, you're cooking it." He grinned. "I nearly bought you flowers on the way home - that's what I used to give my wives when I sprung an extra person on them for dinner."

Greg didn't really know what to make of that so he kept on with his food preparation and the conversation moved on to what Greg had been doing that day. He was in the middle of explaining how he had stumbled upon 'YouTube' when Doctor Cuddy arrived. When he heard her knocking Wilson gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and went to let her in. Greg looked around the kitchen, making sure everything was in order and then looked back up as Wilson brought his guest into the kitchen.

Doctor Cuddy was a short, brunette woman, wearing high heels and clothes that fitted the curves of her body tightly. She was also very attractive. Greg felt his stomach turning into knots as he looked at her. Wilson waved a hand in his direction.

"Doctor Cuddy, this is Greg. Greg, Doctor Cuddy." 

Doctor Cuddy glanced at him, a slight smile on her face and then stared harder, her eyes widening and the smile falling away as her mouth opened in shock. 

"Oh, my God! Greg? Greg _House_?"

Greg felt a sharp pain lance through his head and he fell to his knees, retching.


	13. Chapter 13

Wilson closed the door to Greg's room quietly and went back out to the living area to see what Cuddy was doing.

She had poured herself a glass of wine and was drinking that while keeping an eye on the dinner. The mess on the floor had been cleaned up.

"Is he okay?"

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tight muscles there. Greg’s dramatic reaction to meeting Cuddy had caught him completely off guard. "He's sleeping. He was very distressed so I gave him something to knock him out for a while. I'm sorry about..." he waved a hand, indicating the floor where Greg had been sick. "Thanks for cleaning it up."

Cuddy smiled ruefully. "It's not very flattering that was his reaction on seeing me for the first time in over twenty years."

"Speaking of which..." Wilson trailed off. Although he hadn't reacted quite like Greg it had still been a shock to him when Cuddy had appeared to recognise him. Given Greg's reaction to the name, and to her, Wilson had to think that she was right.

"If you've still got an appetite after all that let's salvage the dinner and I'll you about it."

They settled in comfortable chairs in the living room, their food on the coffee table. Wilson poured himself a glass of wine to match hers; he figured he might need it.  
"I met him at Michigan. We met in a bookshop, had one date and then I never heard from him again. I found out a little while later that he'd been kicked out of med school."

Wilson felt a brief flare of ridiculous jealousy. "Must have been some date if you recognised him so quickly after all this time."

"Oh, believe me, once you've met Greg House there's no forgetting. Guy was a genius, and a total ass."

"A genius?" 

"Yeah, he had a reputation even in med school. Streets ahead of everyone else in the class in medical knowledge, and a walking trivia library, but couldn't keep out of trouble. Hence the whole 'getting kicked out of med school' thing."

"So he didn't graduate?" Wilson couldn't quite get his head around the Greg Cuddy was describing. His Greg was bright; he'd seen evidence of that, but a genius and a troublemaker? Wilson had never met someone who was more docile and compliant than Greg. On the other hand he had landed up in prison somehow so maybe he really _had_ changed that much. 

"As I said I never heard from him again, but I know he did graduate and become a doctor. A few years later I heard what happened from a friend of a friend. He was doing a nephrology residency in California when he ran into trouble. There was a patient, a child. House thought he knew what was wrong with her, his boss disagreed. House decided to treat her anyway and the child died. The parents pressed charges and the hospital backed them up. House lost his license and was sentenced to two years in prison for manslaughter. That was the last I heard of him." She shook her head. "I can't believe Greg House is a slave - or that he _survived_ as a slave for all this time."

"Something else must have happened. He was sentenced to twenty five years, according to the file I have on him, for a violent crime."

Cuddy took a forkful of her dinner and her eyes widened. "Hey, this is great."

"He's a really good cook - picked it up in no time, loves experimenting with stuff. I've never eaten so well." 

"Figures. I told you the guy was a genius. You say he can’t remember anything from his past?"

"He remembers some things. He knew how to play the guitar; he just can't remember where he learned or who taught him. If he tries to remember, he... well, you saw what happened tonight although I've never seen him that bad before."

"I wonder if it was seeing me, or hearing his name that set him off?"

"Probably both, if he recognised you as well."

"So you don't know if he retains any medical knowledge?"

"He's never said anything, but he hasn't had much opportunity to show off any medical skills."

"It's such a waste. My source told me that he had quite the reputation at the hospital for diagnosing cases no-one else could. I guess he got arrogant and thought he knew best. Greg House and prison would _not_ be a good mix. Guy hated rules and authority." She drained the rest of her drink. "Which is sort of ironic if you think about where he's ended up."

"Greg isn't like that at all now. I can barely get him to express an opinion about what he wants to watch on television. He's quiet and withdrawn. He's only just beginning to be a bit more relaxed around me and we've been living in the same apartment for weeks."

Cuddy shrugged. "I can assure you it is him. Do you want me to describe his birthmarks to you to prove it? He has one in quite an... intimate place."

Wilson didn't need her to do that. Greg's pre-sale report had made note of that unusual birthmark. The idea of Greg and Cuddy having a history together was still a little mindblowing. "Just the one 'date', you said?"

Cuddy laughed. "Don't tell me you're jealous that your slave had a one night stand with me twenty years ago? You've still got him beat anyway. You lasted a little longer than one 'date'. Maybe we can talk about a threesome when Greg is feeling a little better."

Wilson glared at her – he was pretty sure that Greg would agree to such a proposition, if only because he had no concept of withholding consent. Cuddy threw her hands up.

"Joke, Wilson. Just a joke."

"Not funny. Greg isn't... he'll pretty much do anything anybody said - he thinks he has to, and I guess he's not wrong. I'm trying to get him to be okay with the idea of making choices."

Cuddy reached out and touched his hand. "I know, Wilson. I told you - I've had dealings with slaves. I don't like the idea of Greg House being turned into one. I don't want to do anything to hurt him. One day I'd like to meet him again."

"Maybe when he wakes up tomorrow he'll be able to remember better."

"Maybe he doesn't _want_ to remember. What he used to be, and everything he's lost."

Wilson had to agree there might be some truth in that. The few times Wilson had brought it up, Greg had seemed reluctant to even try and think about his past. Still, the events of tonight might have provided a catalyst. 

They sat quietly for a few minutes, finishing off their food. Then Wilson cleared away their plates and Cuddy took out her computer so that they could work.

When she left two hours later she kissed Wilson gently on the cheek. "You're a good man, James. I'm glad someone is taking care of Greg. I just don't want you to be hurt by this. That slave isn't the man I knew - not anymore."

"I think he can be."

* * *

Greg woke up early the next morning. His head felt foggy and his mouth was dry. _Drugged_ , he thought. Then, as he sat up, the evening before came back to him. Wilson's boss - Doctor Cuddy - had come for dinner. She appeared to recognise him and called him by name and he'd become violently sick. The name she had given him floated up in his mind and he pushed it away. He didn't want to disturb his still unsettled stomach. Similarly he didn't try to bring up a mental picture of Doctor Cuddy. 

He couldn't forget what had happened though. She knew who he was. Who he had been. She might even know how he had become a slave. He didn't know if he wanted to know that. 

Greg pushed back the blanket that covered him and got to his feet. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, only his shoes had been removed and placed neatly by his bed. He slipped those on and grabbed his cane. Wilson wouldn't be awake for another hour yet but he didn't want to stay in bed - he felt as unsettled as he had since his first days here. 

In the kitchen he put the coffee on. He wasn't that fond of the taste but this morning he wanted one. He looked around and noticed that the kitchen had been cleaned up after the evening before. He'd failed in his duties there. Not only had he made a disgraceful mess on the floor, he also hadn't served up dinner for Doctor Wilson and his guest, or cleaned up afterwards. No doubt he had ruined the evening for both the doctors. 

As he waited for the coffee to brew he emptied the dishwasher, putting away the dry dishes. Doctor Wilson must have started it going last night - another thing Greg had failed to do. He would clean the kitchen thoroughly today and see if there was anything additional Wilson wanted him to do to try and atone for his failures of the night before. 

"Hey, you're awake." 

Greg looked up, startled. Deep in thought he hadn't heard Wilson get up. 

"How are you this morning? I was worried about you last night."

"I am very sorry, sir." Greg stood quietly, his head bowed.

"Nothing to be sorry about, it's not your fault somebody screwed you up so much that you react like that when you hear your own name." Wilson sounded angry. "They took something away from you they had no right to. Making you a slave is one thing, but taking away your memories, and your whole identity... that shouldn't happen to anyone, no matter what they've done."

Greg couldn't help flinching from the vehemence in Wilson's voice. He hadn't seen Wilson this angry before. Going over to the coffee pot he poured them both a cup of coffee and they sat at the stools at the kitchen counter to drink it. 

Hoping to assuage some of Wilson's anger Greg apologized. "I am sorry if I woke you, sir."

"Will you stop apologizing? I'm not mad at you, you didn't do anything wrong." Wilson took a long sip of his coffee and sighed in appreciation. "I'm just glad you’re feeling better this morning - and not just so you can make me great coffee," he added with a wry grin.

Greg sipped his own coffee. It was strong and bitter but it cleared away the last of the fuzziness from whichever drug Wilson had given him. 

"Did Doctor Cuddy tell you about me?" he asked when it seemed that Wilson wasn't going to volunteer the information. "About who I used to be? She recognised me didn't she? She knew me when I was free." He'd been a slave for so long that 'free' was a state that didn't even seem to apply to him anymore. 

"She knew you briefly." Wilson looked at him, as if making up his mind and then nodded. "In medical school. You're a doctor."

A doctor. It wasn't as if he hadn't suspected that - ever since he had realised that he knew the medicine in Wilson's textbooks. Maybe before that really, when he had diagnosed his own infarction. 

"You're not surprised." Wilson said, eyeing him.

Greg froze, trying to decide what to do. He stalled by putting a hand up to his temple and rubbing, as if the pain was coming back.

"Greg? It's okay - just tell me. Whatever it is, it's not a problem. Have you remembered something?" He leaned forward - eager for the answer.

Greg didn't want to lie to Wilson - not about this. He took a deep breath. "Sir, I've been reading your medical textbooks. When I realised that I understood them I suspected that I must have had some medical training. I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have read them without your permission."

Wilson waved that away. "I told you to read anything you wanted. But... you've been reading them all along? Since you came here? Without even knowing that you used to be a doctor?"

Greg nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."

"That's great, Greg. That you're retained that knowledge is a good sign. And you don't get sick when you read them?"

"I get a headache sometimes. When I do I stop reading and do something else. It's become a little easier."

"Now that I know I can find you some more resources. You've missed twenty years of continuing education - medicine has changed a lot. What we need is a summary of all that. You need to study up. I can help, Maybe I can take you on a tour of the hospital - show you some of the new technology. We're a teaching hospital, you should be able to audit some classes. " 

"Sir... ”Greg didn't know what to say. On the one hand what Wilson was proposing was exciting to him - he'd been struggling to study modern medical advancements on his own, having a qualified Doctor like Wilson to advise him would be very helpful. On the other hand - Wilson would be wasting his time. Greg would never use the knowledge. And he doubted that any medical school would allow him to attend classes. "Why would I do that? I'm a slave now, not a doctor."

"You won't always be a slave. Oh, I know it feels like it. But another six years and you can be freed. On the day it's legally possible I'll free you. You can start your life again."

Freed. Wilson was right - six years felt like another eternity. Anything could happen in six years. It was very likely that Wilson would no longer be his owner then - or would change his mind. Greg couldn't afford to hope - he couldn't afford to think of that sort of future. 

"I don't know if you can regain your license, I'll look into that for you. But it's something to work towards, isn't it?"

Even if he could regain a medical license, Greg knew there was more to being a doctor than knowing the content of some textbooks. Whoever that man was who'd gone through medical school Greg was no longer him. He couldn't imagine doing what Wilson did, every day. The idea scared him deeply. He felt himself begin to tremble, his heartrate accelerated and a wave of anxiety crashed over him.

"Hey." He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing it. "Hey, calm down. Deep breaths, Greg."

Wilson watched him with concerned eyes as Greg took deep breaths and tried to steady himself. If he kept behaving like this Wilson would get annoyed at him.

"I'm sorry, Greg. I know it's a lot to take in. I didn't mean to push you. It's just something to think about, that's all - there's plenty of time." Wilson poured him another cup of coffee and Greg curled his hands around it gratefully. 

"Thank you, sir." He drank the coffee and gradually felt calmer. Wilson sat next to him, just being there quietly and after a while Greg turned to him. "Do you... do you know why I...." He trailed off, his hand going up to his collar, not touching. 

"Why you were enslaved?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Cuddy heard that you got in trouble over some medical procedure - did something that wasn't authorised because you were trying to save your patient's life. She doesn't know the details - she heard it third hand. You were sentenced to a year or two in prison."

"A year or two," Greg said numbly. Did that equate to being made a slave for over twenty years?

"Something else must have happened - maybe while you were in prison. Cuddy didn't know what. Do you want me to try and find out? It shouldn't be hard. There must be some records somewhere."

Did he want to know what awful thing he had done? It sounded like he had thrown his medical career, and his freedom, away by not following instructions or procedure. Had he made an equally stupid mistake to throw the rest of his life away?

"I don't know, sir."

"How about I try and find out, and if you ever want to know you can ask me?"

He didn't want to think about this anymore and he gladly handed the responsibility over to Wilson. "Yes, sir. Please."

Wilson nodded and stood up, squeezing Greg's shoulder again. "You feeling okay? I have to get ready for work. There's a Board meeting I can't miss."

He nodded - he'd already taken up enough of Wilson's time. "Yes, sir. I'll start breakfast." He got up and picked up the dishes, glad to have some work to do. 

When Wilson had left for work, with instructions for Greg to call him if he needed him for any reason, Greg picked up the guitar. Wilson had taken it to be tuned and repaired and then given it to him - saying that the world had lost no musical talent when he'd stopped playing and maybe Greg would make better use of it. 

He sat by the window and played, quietly so as not to disturb their neighbours. He hadn't realised how much he had missed music until Wilson gave it back to him. The simple act of playing soothed his mind and his body. 

After a while, feeling much calmer, he put the instrument away carefully and went to the kitchen. He had work to do.


	14. Chapter 14

The revamped budget had gone through the Board meeting smoothly. Not all the Department Heads were on the Board, thankfully, so the arguing was kept at a minimum. Cuddy looked down at her agenda. Yes, all the items were finished.

"If there is no other business..." she started to say only to be interrupted by Wilson raising his hand slightly. She glared at him, but he ignored her.

"Actually I'd like to address a matter of hospital policy."

The other members also gave him disapproving looks but Wilson wouldn't be stopped.

"I'd like to propose that we don’t replace the slaves who died in the fire. By the end of next financial year I would like the hospital to replace all slave workers, including rented slaves, with paid workers. This hospital should become a slave-free workplace."

Cuddy stared at him. Wilson hadn't mentioned anything like this last night. This was the first she'd heard of it, and she didn't appreciate being blindsided in her boardroom.

"Doctor Wilson. This item is _not_ on the agenda."

"I'm aware of that. I would like it placed on the agenda for the next Board meeting, and in the meantime a feasibility study should be conducted - complete with costings."

"Maybe you'd like to give us _your_ slave - that crippled one you've been dragging into the hospital every Saturday." Henderson said snidely from the other end of the table.

"Doctor Henderson..." Cuddy started but he talked over her.

"Doctor Wilson is being a hypocrite. He thinks we should do without slaves while he himself owns a 'personal' slave. Did you run out of wives, Wilson?"

There was a shocked intake of breath around the table, but Wilson continued on calmly.

"It's because of my purchase of Greg that I'm proposing this. Before that I was as ignorant as the rest of you about the way slaves live. Now I've had chance to see the damage done to these slaves by the 'training' process they go through. A hospital is a place of humanity, we heal people here. We should have no part in furthering this abuse.”

"I'm sure _Greg_ appreciates your altruism. The rest of us live in the real world, Doctor Wilson - and don't have the benefit of our own slaves to do our bidding. The hospital needs those slaves. The budget is tight enough as it is without unnecessary additional labour costs.

"I believe we can accommodate this policy within the budget. There are also several organisations that are promising both funds and support for organisations that dispense with slave labour. We can use this as a promotional tool. We can be a community leader."

Cuddy rubbed at her temples. Henderson and Wilson were glaring across the table at each other and the other Board members were looking from one to the other like spectators at a tennis match.

"We'll place it on the agenda for the next quarterly Board meeting," she decided. "And, as it was your proposal, Doctor Wilson you are in charge of the costings and feasibility report."

After the meeting had broken up, and Henderson had stalked off, she crooked a finger at Wilson. "My office, now."

Wilson dutifully followed her to her office and she rounded on him as soon as the door was closed behind them.

"What the hell was all that about?"

"We don't need to have slaves here. Greg... "

"You're obsessed with Greg. They're not all unfortunate medical geniuses, you know. Most of them are criminals who pretty much deserve what happened to them."

"After seeing what's been done to Greg I can't agree with that. And the slaves who lost their lives in the basement fire didn't deserve that."

"That was an accident - we've been cleared of any blame there. But one thing I do agree with you on – I was already intending to sell the three slaves who are left, and not replace the dead ones. We're a hospital, not a slave hostel. We'll contract with Rent-A-Slave for what we need from now on. It will probably work out even in the long run, and it will save us any liability for keeping them on the premises overnight." She'd inherited the slaves in the basement from her predecessor in the job and had never been totally comfortable with the arrangements down there. It would be a relief to get the rest of the slaves out of there and they could use the room for something else, now that it had been cleaned up. That might be enough to keep Wilson moderately happy too, which would keep him from harping on about it. Once Wilson had an idea in his head it was very hard to divert him from it. The Oncology playroom was proof of that.

"That would be a start but I still want to go forward with my proposal. Beyond anything else we would create paid positions for people who need the work."

"It's on the agenda - knock yourself out." She sat down and waved him to a seat. "How is Greg anyway? Feeling better this morning? How much does he remember?"

"Oh, you're interested in him now that you know who he is?"

"Yes, I'm planning on following up my one night stand with him with another one twenty years later. When can you have in my office?" She rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm curious. Why wouldn't I be? Greg was going places when he was a student, everybody knew that. A lot of people thought those places might include prison, and it turned out they were right. It's still a loss to the medical community. He could have really been something."

"I think he still can be. He's already been studying on his own."

"Studying?"

"Yes. It turns out he's been reading my medical books while I've been at work. He says he remembers a lot of the information - just not where and how he learned it the first time."

Now, that was something. She'd just assumed that he had lost all that, along with his personal history.

"So what's the plan? You're going to try and get his medical license restored? He can be a doctor who is also a slave? How do you think that's going to work?"

"I'm thinking about the future for him. In another six years he'll have finished his sentence, I can apply for him to be freed. He'll need a way to support himself - I was thinking originally that he could maybe do some clerical work, or become a chef, but if he could be a doctor again, why not? I can't see how it would work if he was still a slave though. I guess I could look into it."

"I wasn't serious about that! The man doesn't even remember who he is. There's no way you'll get him past any medical board hearing, now or in six years time. The criminal record alone would be enough to disqualify him."

"Maybe. But if Greg wants to try I'm going to help him."

* * *

Wilson phoned Greg a couple of times during the day to make sure he was okay. Greg answered promptly and with his usual quiet assurance that he was fine. Wilson thought he'd probably still say that if he was collapsed on the floor in agony. He left as soon as he could in the afternoon and went straight home as he usually did.

He opened the door to the sight of an apartment that was practically glistening. Greg always kept the place immaculate but there was an extra air about it, as if he'd spent all day preening it to look its absolute best. He found Greg in the kitchen, with a large array of pots and pans spread around him and some food already on the table, a glass of wine next to them.

"I made some appetizers, sir. Dinner will be about thirty minutes."

A little bemused Wilson went over and sampled the food. It was delicious.

"Strawberry Balsamic Chutney and Goat Cheese Bruschetta," Greg said to Wilson's enquiring look.

"It's amazing. Have you been watching cooking shows again?" Wilson ate another one. He wasn't sure what was behind the extra cooking effort but he wasn't going to complain. All of Greg's meals since his first couple had been good, but this was kicking it up a level. Greg had requested those ingredients when Wilson last ordered his shopping but this was the first time they’d made their way into a meal.

"I found the recipe on the internet." Greg checked on whatever was cooking in the oven.

"You haven't been cleaning and cooking all day have you? I thought you'd rest a bit today after what happened yesterday."

"I also did some reading, sir," Greg said quickly. "Principles and Practices of Surgical Oncology." He nodded to the table, where the massive book was still sitting.

"That's a page turner." Wilson wanted to push a little but he decided to give Greg some time to consider his options by himself. That he was still reading the books was a good sign. That textbook wasn't something anyone would pick up for a little light reading.

They ate the dinner Greg had prepared and then went out for their daily walk. By now they were a familiar sight around the neighbourhood and didn't draw much attention. As always Greg watched their surroundings carefully. At first these walks had been conducted in near silence, with Greg answering Wilson's questions in as few as words as possible. Over the weeks he had gradually started to ask his own questions. About things he had seen on television, or read, or things they saw on their walk. Greg had enormous gaps in his knowledge of the world around him and he was becoming more and more eager to fill those gaps. Now that he had Cuddy's perspective on Greg, Wilson realised that he was a sponge for new information. Everything Wilson had told him, or shown him, he'd absorbed and remembered. He'd taken on new skills, like cooking, and using the computer, easily.

"So, what do you think of the Internet?" Wilson asked, curious. He'd been unsure at first about allowing Greg free reign on the internet. He'd supervised him for a couple of sessions but eventually had let him find his own way. It probably wouldn't be something any slave trainer would recommend but Wilson had never thought of Greg as 'his slave'. He wanted Greg to experience as normal a life as was possible given his circumstances. He couldn't block off such a large part of modern life to him - not when Greg was already restricted from so many experiences.

"It is... amazing." Greg said, his eyes widening in enthusiasm. "Everything you could possibly want to know is on there." He looked down at the ground and then back up at Wilson. "I looked up Rent-A-Slave, sir. They have a website. They give ten percent of their profits to charity annually and ‘provide a high standard of care for the slaves that live and work there’. All their slaves are ‘satisfied that they are giving back to the community’." He lowered his gaze to the ground again.

"You're never going back there, you know that, don't you?"

Greg hesitated before he answered. "You've said that before."

"I mean it. Your home is with me now. I am not going to sell you, or give you back to those people.”

“Circumstances can change. You may have no choice.”

“I’m not going to sell you because I don’t have the right.”

“You own me.”

“No, I don’t.” Greg looked up at him, his eyes wide and Wilson realised he’d misunderstood him. “I have a piece of paper that says I do. Legally I do. But I don’t believe I can own another human being. I don’t have that right.”

Greg looked sceptical. Wilson couldn’t blame him. Greg was the one with the collar around his neck and Wilson was the one with the ownership papers. It was easy for Wilson to talk in platitudes. Greg knew what it meant to be owned in a way Wilson didn’t, and never would.

Wilson wasn’t ever going to convince Greg with words, all he could do was keep treating him as a human being and not a piece of household equipment. That would have to be enough for now.

* * *

"He's doing well," Doctor Reilly said to Wilson as she watched Greg finish the last of his exercises for the session.

Wilson watched Greg as well and thought that he didn't see much difference in the way he was moving. Greg didn't complain about pain, either here or at home, but Wilson knew that doing the therapy hurt him. Wilson kept a supply of Vicodin on hand for after therapy if neeed, and for any breakthrough pain Greg might experience. It was a prescription that Cuddy had given him, for his intermittent back pain, so it wasn't exactly legal.

Greg looked up and caught his eye and Wilson saw the tiniest spark of irritation in his expression as he did the last leg raise. Reilly patted him on the shoulder.

"That's good, Greg. We're all done. How is the pain?"

Greg hesitated, his gaze flitting from Wilson back to Reilly. "It's fine, Ma'am. Just normal."

Reilly smiled. "If it's ‘just normal’ it means you weren't working hard enough, Greg." She scribbled a couple of notes in his file. "Okay, I'll leave you go to get changed and see you both the same time next week." She patted him again and left.

"Just normal?" Wilson asked when they were alone. He reached around and grabbed the bag they always brought with them, containing Greg's regular clothes. He handed them to Greg who promptly took off his sweat pants and t-shirt, stripping down to his boxers. "You can say when it hurts more, you know. If you don't tell us we can't help."

"The exercises hurt," Greg said. "They're supposed to. You know that."

Wilson ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. Sometimes it was so frustrating talking to Greg.

"Look, I know they hurt and they're supposed to. But _you_ know I have something I can give you for that. Doctor Reilly thinks this therapy will help you in the long run."

"If you say so, sir." Greg's tone was formal and subservient but the tiny suggestion of rebellion in his words was new.

Greg pulled on his jeans and button down shirt, bringing the collar up around the thick leather slave collar that still sat around his neck. They both had found that life was easier if Greg's collar was at least a little less noticeable when they were out and about. He sat back down to put on his shoes.

They had a routine of going to the park for a while after each therapy visit but Wilson had other plans today – for their first visit to the hospital since the disastrous dinner with Cuddy.

"I need to go up to Oncology for a little while. The doctor on call has a family emergency and if I do rounds it will save someone else from having to come in on a Saturday morning."

Greg froze in the act of doing up his shoes and then looked up at him, his face carefully blank.

"Will you be taking me to the basement, sir?"

Wilson was puzzled until he remembered the security guard's offer of the basement cell on their first visit here. He shook his head.

"No, but I can't leave you here either, you can come with me. I won't be long."

* * *

Wilson took him up to the fourth floor of the hospital where his office was. It was a large office, with a door leading onto a balcony. As Wilson picked up his labcoat and some paperwork Greg wandered over to look out the glass door.

“You can go out there if you want. It’s not very exciting though, there’s not much out there.”

Greg went outside and to the balcony edge, staring out over the front entrance of the hospital. He could see a fair distance from here, over the grounds of the hospital, into the parking lot. There were free people walking around, some coming to the hospital, some leaving. Small clumps of people stood together, talking.

Wilson joined him at the railing.

“I guess it’s a better view than from the apartment anyway. Sometimes I come out here just to think.”

They stood there for another minute or two, side by side then Wilson gently touched his arm.

“Come on, I need to go and do rounds. We’ll get this done and go to the park for a while. You can people watch there.”

Wilson introduced him to the nurses on this floor simply as ‘Greg’ – making no mention of his ownership. They gave him curious looks, their eyes darting from Wilson to him but didn’t ask questions.

“I’ll have to ask you to wait outside the rooms while I see to the patients.” Wilson said apologetically and Greg nodded. He had expected no less and was pleased that Wilson trusted him alone in his hospital.

The walls of the patient rooms were mostly glass, and Greg could see Wilson through them as he visited each patient in turn. He tried to stay out of sight from the people in the rooms while still watching what Wilson was doing.

Most of Wilson's work seemed to be reassuring the patient's and their families. Their faces brightened when they saw him approach and he often touched their arms or their shoulders as he talked to them. He never appeared to be in a hurry and was always open and friendly – just as he was with Greg.

As he watched Wilson with the patients Greg tried to imagine himself in that position. Examining patients, reassuring them and talking with their families. He must have done those things, when he was working in a hospital like this - before he was sent to prison. He shook his head slightly. He couldn't remember it. Any effort to try was met with the familiar feeling of nausea. He pressed a hand to his temple, pushing back the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He blanked his mind.

"Hey, you okay?" Wilson was in front of him, touching him gently on the arm. "Is this bringing back memories?" He looked worried.

"No sir, I can't... I can't remember."

"Well, don't push it. I don't want you making yourself sick. I’ve just got to pay a visit to the kid’s playroom. Will you be okay?”

“Yes, sir.” The pain had receded for now.

“The Oncology staff room is just here, no-one is using it. Just pop in there and sit down. I won’t be long.” Wilson gestured him towards an open doorway and Greg complied.

The room was furnished with a couch and he sat down on it. A coffee maker sat on a bench by the door and he wondered if he should make Wilson a cup of coffee.

“Hi.” He looked up to see a young woman standing in the doorway; she was dressed in a hospital uniform but wasn’t one of the nurses he’d met earlier. He immediately stood up. Although he had permission to be here he knew that many free people would take offense at a slave using their space.

“Oh, don’t stand up. I can see you’re…” she gestured to his cane and blushed.

He remained standing. “Can I help you, Ma’am? My owner, Doctor Wilson, is in the Oncology Playroom.” He let her know both that his owner was nearby and where to find him if she had a complaint about him.

“So, it’s true. Doctor Wilson does own you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I… I wanted to talk to you. My brother… my brother is a slave,” she blurted out. “He got into some trouble when he was young and they offered him the choice of prison or being a slave.”

Greg wasn’t sure what to say to that. He knew he’d made that choice himself, even if he didn’t remember it. “Yes, ma’am.”

She twisted her hands together and looked away from him. “I just wondered what… whether he was okay.”

“I don’t know your brother, ma’am.”

“I know. I guess I just wondered if you think he made the right choice. Are you… are you treated well?”

“Doctor Wilson is very kind to me, ma’am.”

“You look okay, except for your leg. Did… did someone…”

“No, ma’am. It was an infarction.”

She looked puzzled and he continued on. “A blockage of blood to the thigh muscles. Nobody did it to me. It just happened.”

She looked relieved. They both stood in silence for a minute. Greg didn’t really know what else to say. He couldn’t tell this young woman that her brother was well.

“I hope your brother comes back to you one day.” He said finally.

“Oh, so do I. I miss him very much.”

“When he comes back, he may not be as you remember.” _And he might not remember you at all._

She smiled shakily, blinking back tears. “That doesn’t matter. We’ll all still love him.”

Did he have anyone to love him? Was there family waiting for him somewhere? He hadn’t thought about family in many years. Slaves didn’t have family.

Except, they did.

“Greg?” Wilson was standing in the doorway, frowning at the young woman.

“Oh, sorry Doctor Wilson, it’s my fault. I just wanted to ask your…” she trailed off, blushing again.

“His name is Greg.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Greg.” She nodded to him and glanced at Wilson before quickly rushing out the door.

“Was she bothering you?” Wilson asked when she was gone. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“No, sir.”

Wilson gave him a look but when Greg didn’t offer anything more he didn’t push. “I thought we’d get something to eat from the cafeteria before we go to the park.”

“Yes, sir.”

The cafeteria was quiet but there were still hospital staff there. Wilson had never brought him here before. Greg stuck closely to his side as Wilson lined up for food. Again he noticed people giving them curious looks but Wilson didn’t seem to care. He brought them both coffees and slices of cake and carried them himself, back through security and out of the hospital to the park.

When they were seated at their usual picnic table, Greg drank his coffee, ate his cake and watched the people for a while, thinking of the young woman at the hospital and her brother.

“Wilson?”

“Yes, Greg?”

“I want to know who I am.”

Wilson stared at him and then slowly smiled.

“Then let’s find out.”


	15. Chapter 15

Greg finished his multiple choice exam well within the time limit and pressed 'submit' to see the results. Eighty percent. Good, not good enough, but getting better. The questions were practice for taking the USMLE exams. He had no plans, or ability, to take the exams themselves but the questions served the purpose of determining where there were gaps in his medical knowledge that he had to fill. He researched every incorrect answer. Sometimes he found that medical knowledge and best practice had advanced since he last took these tests. An answer that would have been correct twenty years ago was now wrong, or incomplete.

The most satisfying thing was that the more he delved into medicine online the easier it became to do so. He rarely had to stop because of headaches or nausea, as long as he kept purely to the medicine and didn't try to remember any personal connection to it. So physically it was becoming easier, and studying like this was awakening parts of his brain that he hadn't even realised had been dormant. He was learning to think again, and to reason, and to question. 

He could feel himself moving beyond being 'Greg, the slave' and becoming something else. Not free of course, but a human being with some value. Something to offer besides his physical labour and blind obedience. He was becoming alive again.

It was dangerous of course, thinking like this. There was no certainty in Wilson's patronship. Although Wilson had stated repeatedly that he had no intention of selling Greg, and every intention of eventually freeing him Greg knew very well how quickly things could change. One morning he might wake up here, and by the evening he could be in another place, working for Rent-A-Slave or another company like it again. He had to remember that. He wouldn't stop his pursuit for knowledge, and the truth about himself, because the benefits outweighed any possible cost but he would always keep in the back of his mind the idea that this could all fall apart.

He looked up from the computer and around the apartment. It was clean enough, he could afford another few minutes of computer use. He brought up the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital website, a site he visited every day.

His first stop was, as always, to search for James Wilson. Wilson's picture appeared in one corner of the screen. His professional biography, which Greg had memorised, in another. With Wilson's steady gaze calming him Greg took a moment to gather his courage, and then he typed in his next search term - 'Lisa Cuddy'.

He tensed when her photo appeared on the screen. It was getting a little easier to look at it but it still made him uneasy. It was hard to tell now whether he recognised her from his past, or from his repeated visits to the website. Her name had meant nothing to him but something had triggered him when she had come for dinner that night.

He braced himself as he moved onto the next step.

"House." His voice was only a whisper as he said the name she'd used. "Greg House."

Again the familiar physical reaction, nausea and a stabbing pain in his head but he said it again.

"Greg House. My name is Greg House. Doctor Greg House."

His hand shook as he closed the lid on the laptop cutting off his sight of Lisa Cuddy. Sitting back in the chair he took deep breaths as the pain receded and the nausea abated. 

It was frustrating, this slow progress on trying to overcome the mental blocks on his personal history. Viewing Doctor Cuddy's photo, and saying his own name aloud, was his version of trying to desensitize himself - much as he would with an allergy. Wilson was working on supplying him with some of his biography but he would only be able to give him bare facts. Greg wanted to know for himself what he was like when he was free. He wanted to _remember_.

He sighed and pushed himself away from the table. He needed to tidy up the apartment and then put dinner on before Wilson came home. 

He was on his way to the kitchen when there was a loud banging on the apartment door and a woman's voice calling for help. He froze, staring at the door. He hadn't once opened that door without Wilson being present. The few times anyone had knocked during the day he'd stayed quiet and still until they left. 

The banging came again, and a thud as something fell in the corridor outside. He limped over to the door and after a moment of hesitation opened it, his heart thumping as he looked outside.

A woman he had occasionally seen as he and Wilson entered and left the building was at the other end of the corridor. She was bending over a young boy who was lying on the ground. 

"He's choking!" The woman was hitting the boy frantically between his shoulder blades. "James! Doctor Wilson!" She looked past Greg, her eyes searching for Wilson. "Get James!"

"He's at work," Greg answered. He limped down the corridor quickly and took the child from her. She tried to fight him but he pushed her away, speaking firmly. "You're doing it wrong. Call for an ambulance. I can help him." 

If he couldn't dislodge the object the child would need medical intervention, if he didn't die before then. He wrapping his arms around the boy's chest and picked him up until he was leaning against his body. Then placing both hands under his diaphragm he thrust inward. Nothing happened and the boy was limp in his arms. He did it again, and then again, and was finally rewarded with an object shooting out of his mouth. He quickly laid him down on the ground, and with gentle hands on his head opened his airway. He was unconscious and Greg leaned down with his cheek in front of the boy's mouth and watched his chest. He wasn't breathing.

He covered the boy's mouth with his own and breathed into it, still watching his chest. Then he did it again. Several breaths later he was rewarded with the sound of the boy coughing and then beginning to breathe on his own, although slowly.

Only then did he look around. The mother was kneeling next to her son, cell phone still clutched in her hand, her face wet with tears. Greg heard sirens and then a clatter of boots in the corridor. The paramedics had arrived. He quickly briefed them, relating what measures he had taken in short sharp sentences. They stared at him briefly, their eyes flitting to his collar in a way that Greg had seen many times. They didn't say anything though, instead going to the boy and pressing an oxygen mask over his face. 

He moved away from them, sitting on the floor with his back against the corridor wall, out of the way and watched as they took over. The boy was breathing now, and had regained consciousness. He would be okay.

Greg realised he was shaking then, the adrenaline having worn off. His leg was throbbing and his head was aching. His cane lay discarded some distance away. Nobody was paying him any attention and he slowly levered himself to his feet, using the wall for support. Dragging his leg he made his way to his cane and picked it up. Wilson's apartment door was still open and he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

When Wilson returned to his office after doing rounds there was a man waiting for him. Lucas Douglas, the private investigator he'd hired to uncover Greg's past. Cuddy had recommended him as being both competent and discreet. She'd used him for hospital business before. From the way she talked about him Wilson suspected that she'd used him for more than that but he made no comment - Cuddy was still a little annoyed at him about the 'slave-free hospital' suggestion he'd sprung on her at the Board meeting. 

The man himself had turned out to be a little scruffy and gave the appearance of being both disorganised and incompetent, but Wilson suspected that a lot of that was an attempt to make himself seem harmless. His eyes had been sharp as Wilson had explained what he wanted.

Wilson had found out a few things on his own but many of the records dated from pre-internet days and hadn't yet been uploaded. Lucas had the connections to do a more thorough job. They'd agreed on a fee and that was the last he'd heard from him until today.

"I've got the report on your boy, Greg." Lucas said, waving a file. "He's got quite a history."

Wilson waved him into his office and shut the door behind him. Half the hospital didn't need to hear this.

Lucas sat down in his visitors chair and helped himself to some candy that Wilson kept in a jar for his younger patients. 

"First of all you've definitely got the right guy. Here's a photo of him from med school." Lucas put the photo down and Wilson could clearly see it was Greg, although much younger and with no pain lines around his face. The man in the photo didn't look happy, but he wasn't in pain. "I mostly concentrated on the events surrounding his criminal record like you asked. He was a bit of a rebel, had trouble with authority. He was expelled out of medical school for cheating, and was constantly in trouble in school and at the three hospitals he worked in after graduating."

Again Wilson felt a disconnect between the man Lucas was describing and the person who was living with him. Greg hadn't even tried to explore the boundaries of his confinement in the weeks he had been with Wilson. He kept his room scrupulously neat and tidy, and treated every suggestion by Wilson as a concrete order. 

"Your source was correct about the reason for his initial sentence. He had already been ordered not to approach the patient and he disobeyed that to administer treatment that he thought would cure them. The patient died and your boy was charged with manslaughter. 

"He received an eighteen months sentence - to be served in a minimum security facility. After five months he was involved in a fight that left another prisoner in hospital and he was reclassified and transferred to a maximum security prison. Then two months after _that_ he was accused of murdering a fellow prisoner. He was convicted and received a life sentence. Under the Slavery Release Program he could opt to become a slave for a reduced sentence of twenty five years and that's what he did."

"He killed someone?" Wilson couldn't take that in. He had known that Greg must have been convicted of a violent crime but hearing it was another matter. Greg had been a doctor, albeit apparently one with an attitude problem, not a common thug. What had driven him to kill?

"Yes. He admitted killing the man but claimed it was in self-defence. His story was that the man was part of a prison gang which had been threatening him. Greg armed himself with a crude home-made knife and the next time they cornered him he used it. The main witness against him, besides the other prisoners, was a prison guard who caught the tail end of the action and said Greg was the instigator."

"The prison guard was lying," Wilson said with conviction. He could never believe that Greg was a cold blooded murderer. Whatever had happened he'd been driven to it. 

Lucas shrugged. "Maybe. The guard was later caught accepting bribes and smuggling drugs into the prison. He ended up doing time himself."

"I could try and get the case reopened. If the guard was corrupt any cases where he was involved should be looked at. Maybe a deal could be done with the guard." Wilson was excited at the thought of getting Greg free earlier. 

Lucas shook his head. "That guard was murdered two months into his sentence. He's not giving any testimony and the trail is pretty cold. You could try, but it's not going to be on the top of anyone's priority list. There's no doubt that your boy stabbed that guy and he's not even in prison anymore. Nobody much cares about slaves. I'm sure you've found that out. He's got six years to serve - I doubt you could get the case looked at quicker than that."

Wilson decided he would at least look into the procedure but he had to admit that Lucas was probably right. 

"Why did he agree to become a slave?" Even facing life in prison, slavery surely couldn't have been seen as an attractive option. 

"If there _was_ a gang, and there probably was, Greg would have faced reprisals. If he was having problems before the murder his life wouldn't have been any easier afterwards. Between facing life in prison under those circumstances or being a slave, he chose slavery. The prison administration can be pretty persuasive too - they get paid a nice bonus for every prisoner who opts into the program. Prison population is down, running costs are way down and the companies that run the prisons get a lump sum when the prisoner is sold for the first time. It's a sweet system."

"For everyone but the slave." Wilson caught Lucas's eye. "Yeah, I know, nobody cares about them."

"Well, there's always a few radicals protesting the system, but nobody much cares about that either."

"People might care if they knew exactly what happens to the slaves. They conditioned Greg so he can't remember any of his past - if he tries he experiences excruciating pain. He's lost himself. Nobody deserves that."

Lucas shrugged again - clearly he shared the general public's lack of concern. Wilson supposed he couldn't blame him - a few months ago Wilson wouldn't have cared either. 

He was about to ask what else Lucas had uncovered when an unfamiliar alarm went off on his phone. He pulled it out his pocket and checked the screen. Greg's collar was sending an alarm - he'd gone beyond his perimeter - the door of Wilson's apartment. 

"I've got to go," he said to Lucas. "Emergency. Send me a bill." He grabbed the file and ran out, hurrying to his car as the alarm continued to sound.

When he got to his apartment he was alarmed to see an ambulance outside and as he got out of his car the paramedics came out, with a patient on a gurney. Wilson raced over; expecting it to be Greg but it was a child he vaguely recognised. 

"Doctor Wilson!" His neighbour, Nora, ran up to him. "Please thank him for me. He saved Henry's life. He was choking and... your slave... he saved him. I didn't get a chance to say anything to him... he was gone..."

"Gone?" Wilson asked sharply, looking around. There was no sign of Greg. He checked his phone; the alarm had stopped on the trip here.

"I think he went back to your apartment. I guess he shouldn't have been out." The paramedics were loading the gurney into the ambulance and she went over to them and got in the back with her son.

Wilson didn't wait for the elevator, quickly racing up the stairs. He opened the door to his apartment and called Greg's name as he entered.

"Here, sir." The quiet voice answered and Wilson looked around the room and saw him on the couch, his leg stretched out in front of him - hands gently massaging it. HIs cane by his side.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked, his eyes scanning Greg. His face was drawn, and pale, the pain lines prominent. "The alarm on your collar went off." He could see the indicator light on the collar glowing red - a sign that the alarm had been triggered. 

"I didn't feel a shock." Greg put one hand up, not quite touching the collar. He looked puzzled, as if just now registering that fact. 

"I set the level to zero, so the alarm goes off but there's no shock," Wilson said. He had done that on the first day he left Greg alone. 

Greg looked at him with wide eyes - as if Wilson had surprised him. Greg was used to the collar being used as a corrective device, as well as a handy system of having him come when he was wanted. The idea that someone would go out of their way to ensure that it couldn't be used like that was apparently novel to him.

"What happened? Nora said you saved her child's life."

Greg put his hand down and nodded. "Yes. I think I did."

* * *

"You know the Heimlich manoeuvre is out of favour now?" Wilson said as they relaxed over dinner. He'd given Greg some top up pain meds and then Greg had slept for a couple of hours. He was looking much better now, maybe better than he had since he'd come to live with Wilson. "We recommend back blows. You'd better brush up on your first aid as well as advanced surgical techniques."

Greg smiled slightly. "It worked."

Wilson toasted him with his wine glass. "That it did. Nora rang while you were sleeping - Henry is fine, he'll be home this evening. You'll be the talk of the whole building by tomorrow you know."

Greg looked down, obviously uncomfortable at the idea, and Wilson changed the subject. 

"I met with a private investigator today - before you interrupted me with the whole 'saving a kid's life' thing."

Greg looked up again. "About me?"

"Yes, he found out some of what happened to you in the prison. If you want to know." Wilson produced the file and laid it down on the coffee table between them. The photograph of the young Greg House was on top. Greg picked it up and stared at it. 

"Yes, tell me." 

Wilson did. 


	16. Chapter 16

_He is being held down. Rough hands grab his ankles, more hands press his chest into the ground. His mouth is stuffed with a dirty cloth and he can't call out, he can hardly breathe. He shoves against them with all his strength but he can't get free. His hair is grabbed and his head is yanked around so he faces his tormentor. The man laughs at him, and waves a shiny blade in front of his eyes._

_"I've been waiting to do this," the man says. "Hold him tight, boys."_   
_  
He tries to scream but the cloth muffles it. The blade comes closer, he pushes at them but he can’t, he can’t. He can’t escape. _

 

Greg woke with a start, his heart pounding, the images still resonating in his head. He kicked his feet out, ignoring the twinge from his leg. He wasn't being held down, and there was no-one in the room with him. He was alone in his bedroom, in Wilson’s home. He was safe. 

_Just a dream_ , he told himself, _that's all it was_. Nothing to be scared of. He flicked the light on and got up, going to the bathroom to splash water on his face. The cold water chased away the last of the dream and the memory was already fading.

He used to dream a lot, in the first years of his enslavement. He never remembered any details when he woke up and had always assumed they were memories, breaking through while he was asleep. After a few years the dreams had stopped.

Looking at the file, and reading about his crimes, had probably brought them back. It didn't take a genius to realise that his dream was related to the attacks in the prison. He still didn't remember those incidents. When he read the story in the file it was as if it happened to someone else, not to him. It meant nothing to him. 

The file was on the nightstand, where he'd left it the night before. Wilson had gone over it with him, adding the contents of his own discussion with the detective who had discovered the story. 

Greg had known that his crimes must be serious for his sentence to be so long. Even so, the conviction for murder had given him pause when he first read it. Wilson had emphasized to him that there was every possibility that he'd killed the man in self-defence, or to prevent future attacks. Unlike in his dream, when he'd been powerless to fight off the attackers, in reality he had lashed out with a weapon. He had taken a man's life. 

He shook his head. If the circumstances in real life had been as they were in his dream... He could still feel the terror of that dream - the helplessness. He would have used a weapon, if he had possessed one. He opened his hand, imagining a small, home-made, blade resting there. 

The man in his dreams had had a knife. 

The malpractice case was of more immediate concern to Greg. He didn't really believe that he'd ever practise medicine again, Wilson’s optimism aside. If he were ever to try though the suspension of his medical license for malpractice would be more of an obstacle to overcome than a murder conviction. A medical review board might forgive a violent crime, but causing a patient's death by ignoring procedure and protocol was another matter. 

The file had a detailed summary of the case, and Greg had briefly perused it the evening before, along with Wilson. On the face of it he could see why his younger self had made the decisions he had. The patient would have died given the attending doctor's course of action. The treatment Greg had administered could have saved his life. He'd been forbidden from pursuing it because it was risky, and as likely to kill as to cure. He'd gone ahead and done it anyway.

He'd asked Wilson what he thought of the decision he'd made, and what he would have done. Wilson had hesitated, but then admitted that he would have taken the 'safe' course and done nothing.

Greg thought that was what he would do if similar circumstances arose again. 

He flicked through the file, pausing again at the photo of his younger self. There was a superficial resemblance to the face he saw in the mirror but the man in the photo might as well have been a complete stranger, for all the resemblance he bore to what Greg was now. He wondered what young Greg would make of the man he had become. 

Glancing at the clock he realised it was nearly time to get up. He put the file down and started straightening his bed – tidying it to an acceptable standard.

He was midway through cleaning up after breakfast, and Wilson had just gotten out of the shower when there was a knock on the door. Wilson yelled out at him to get the door, which was something he'd never done before.

Greg opened the door to find two police officers standing there. A woman and a man. He took a step back and lowered his gaze. 

"Where's your owner? Are you here by yourself?" The woman asked, without any preliminaries.

"He's just getting dressed, Ma'am." 

The officers moved past him, into the main living area. Wilson came from the other direction, rubbing at his hair with a towel. He looked startled to see two police officers in his living room.

"Can I help you?"

"Officers Lehaine and Connelly," the female officer said, flashing a badge at Wilson. "Sorry to call so early Doctor Wilson but we received a report that a slave living at this address was involved in an incident yesterday and we wanted to catch you before you went to work. Is this your slave, sir?" She waved a hand at Greg.

Wilson glanced at Greg. "Yes, this is Greg. He saved the life of a child of one of our neighbours yesterday. Is that the 'incident' you're referring to?"

"Yes, sir. Did the slave exit this apartment without your knowledge or permission?"

Greg tensed. It was true that he hadn't been given permission to leave the apartment, and the collar had been set to trigger an alarm if he did - which was implicitly saying that he was restricted to the apartment. He'd had chance to read up on slave regulations once he was given unrestricted access to the internet. Slaves could go out in public without their owners, but only if they had been given permission. A slave who hadn't been given permission could be seized by the police if discovered. He covertly glanced from one police officer to the other, and then at Wilson. 

"He did but only after his help was requested by my neighbour. From what I understand my neighbour - Nora - knocked on the door to the apartment and asked for help. Greg saw that her child was choking and applied first aid which removed the obstruction. He administered CPR until the boy was breathing again. He then returned to this apartment without delay. Do you think Greg should have just ignored her and let the child die?"

"No, of course not. There's no need to get defensive, Doctor Wilson. We're not saying you, or your slave, did anything wrong. It's an unusual situation that's all. How did the slave know what to do for the child?"

" _Greg_ was a doctor before he was enslaved."

Greg felt a moment of satisfaction when both officers looked surprised at the revelation.

"Well," Lehaine continued after a moment's pause and a disbelieving look at Greg. "As the child has recovered and your slave seems to be under control we'll just check out the slave's paperwork, and his collar, and we'll leave you alone."

"His collar?"

"Routine inspection, we do it whenever we’re called out for an incident involving a slave." She turned to him, addressing him directly for the first time since entering the apartment. "Kneel down so I can check your collar."

Greg knelt. At one time he wouldn't have thought twice about kneeling, but now, in front of Wilson, he felt oddly reluctant. He tried to ignore the officer's fingers brushing his neck as she examined his collar, writing down his registration number from the tag there. While he kept his head bowed she checked the fit and the locking mechanism. 

"Do you have the control?" she asked Wilson.

"What for?"

"As I said, it's just routine. Now, please get me the control, Doctor Wilson. I don't want to hold you up longer than necessary."

Wilson reluctantly went to get it. When he handed it over the officer made an adjustment and then pressed a button. Greg started at the no longer familiar sensation of the electric shock.

"I didn't say you could do that!" Wilson said indignantly. "Greg, are you okay?" He came over and laid a hand on Greg's shoulder, which Greg realised prevented any more shocks from being delivered.

"I used the lowest level, he barely felt it. You should be testing it at that level once a week anyway. Now, please show us his registration papers and the secure room you have for him and we'll be on our way."

Greg hadn't been told to get up so he stayed on his knees as they went to his bedroom with Wilson. He heard a low murmuring of voices but couldn't make out what they were saying. When they came back Lehaine was holding some documents.

"You can get up, Greg," Wilson said.

He struggled to get to his feet, wishing he had his cane, but he'd laid it aside when the police came. Wilson saw his difficulty and helped him up, steadying him on his feet. Lehaine ignored them while she examined the papers. Greg noticed that her partner kept his eye on both of them.

"Okay, that seems to be in order. Please think about what I said, Doctor Wilson, it doesn't pay to coddle these slaves. They need a firm hand." 

Wilson didn't say anything and she shook her head. "Good day, Doctor Wilson, we'll probably be seeing you again one day."

After they left Wilson threw the controller across the room and ran his hand through his hair. 

"Damn. I'm sorry about that, Greg. You don’t deserve to be treated like that."

Greg might have laughed at Wilson thinking the police officer’s treatment of him was particularly harsh but he was still recovering from the unexpected visit. He picked up his cane and made his way over to the stools by the kitchen counter, easing himself down on one. His leg hadn't appreciated the kneeling, and then the shock.

"Next time I won't help the kid," he said, rubbing his thigh. 

Wilson stared at him with wide eyes for a moment and then laughed. Greg hadn't really intended to be humorous but at least Wilson wasn't looking so angry now. He took his chance to find out what he wanted to know. 

"What did she say to you, when you went to my bedroom?"

"Well, she liked how neat and tidy it was. She approved of your cleaning skills. Then she told me that she thought I was 'spoiling' you. As if a standard bedroom and a small bathroom is the height of luxury."

Greg couldn't argue with the police officer - it was indeed a luxury, for a slave. The visit had reminded him just how the rest of the world viewed slaves. The way she had talked to Wilson - not to him, and the casual way she'd used the controller, had thrown Greg straight back to how he was treated before Wilson bought him. Many times, of course, it had been worse than that - and there had been no Wilson to try and intervene either. Just the attempt was something far outside his experience. 

"Can she do anything to us... to me?" 

"Neither of us have done anything wrong. Just the opposite in your case. You saved that boy's life. The whole time you've been living here you haven't done _anything_ that would cause anyone any alarm. I've got the damn collar on you, that's all I'm legally required to do." Wilson looked at his watch. "I've got to get ready, I'm going to be late. Listen, don't worry about it okay?"

That was easy enough for Wilson to say, Greg thought, but it was out of his control anyway. What would happen to him would happen, just as it always had. 

After Wilson had left for the hospital Greg did his usual thorough cleaning job on the apartment and then showered. He had just finished getting dressed when there was another knock on the door. He froze, thinking that the police had come back, this time when Wilson wasn’t here. Then he heard a woman’s voice calling out, the woman from yesterday – Nora. He opened the door reluctantly and she was standing there, her son shyly peeking out from behind her.

“Doctor Wilson isn’t here,” he said, hoping she didn’t have another medical emergency. 

“I just came to say thank you, I didn’t have a chance yesterday.” She seemed uneasy, not quite looking at him. Then she gave him a basket with some items in it, the whole thing covered in a colourful wrapping.

He took it and thanked her. She kept standing there and he wasn’t sure what he should say next. He obviously couldn’t invite her in, and he doubted she would come anyway. He didn’t want to cross the threshold and risk setting off the alarm in his collar again – Wilson surely wouldn’t be happy to have another work day interrupted.

“Anyway, I need to go but I just wanted to thank you properly.”

“I’ll tell Doctor Wilson that you called by,” he offered when she still hesitated and finally she nodded and walked off, the young boy staring back at him as they left. 

He quickly shut the door and retreated back into the apartment, putting the gift down on the table in the kitchen. He stared at it. It seemed to be full of different foodstuffs. He just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with it. She had given it to him, but everything he owned belonged to Wilson. Rightfully the basket was his. 

With his previous owners he wouldn’t have hesitated at taking something from the basket, if he could get away with it. Now he was reluctant. Wilson had been more than generous with him, and taking things from this gift without permission was a poor way to return that generosity. And Wilson had never left him short of food, he didn’t need to hide away what he could.

He finally left the basket in the kitchen, untouched, and returned to the desk where he studied. 

He settled down with the file Wilson had given him and the computer. There were a few things in the medical case he wanted to follow up on. He needed to know whether he had been right in that case. Whether he had done the right thing.


	17. Chapter 17

Wilson rubbed his eyes as he left his patient's room. He'd been called back to the hospital at two that morning to attend one of his long term cases. Jed Sturgess had finally succumbed to his cancer after four years of fighting. Watching a patient die in pain never became any easier. At least the man had family who could be there with him in the end. 

When he left the apartment Greg had been asleep. Wilson had left a note for him and just for a split second felt a little envious of the lack of responsibility Greg had. He didn't hold anyone's lives in his hands, and he wasn't on constant call. He'd done everything he could to make Greg's current life as easy it was possible to be.

He'd shaken off the thought as soon as he had it - Greg's life was hardly one to be envied - but he still wouldn't mind trading with him for just this morning. Jed had been too young to die. 

He pushed open the door to the bathroom nearest the Oncology wing and surprised a slave who was kneeling at the urinals, cleaning materials by his side. The slave was wearing the Rent-A-Slave uniform. He immediately stopped work and placed his hands behind his back and lowered his head. As he looked at the slave Wilson had a mental vision of Greg doing the same, only a few months ago. Greg had once been this slave. 

He crossed over to the basins to splash some water on his face. There wasn't any point going home now - he had rounds in a couple of hours - but it was better for the patients if their doctor didn't appear to be half asleep. He wanted to pee, but the quiet presence of the slave put him off. It seemed rude to urinate in a place so obviously just cleaned.

"I'm sorry, I'm interrupting your work," he said. The slave looked up for a moment, his eyes wide and startled. He probably wasn't used to free people apologizing to him.

"It doesn't matter, sir."

"What's your name?"

The slave hesitated but then offered a name. "Chris, sir. My name is Chris."

"Hi Chris, I'm Wilson, James Wilson. I'm a doctor here." He didn't know why he didn't just leave. He was obviously making the slave uneasy, and interrupting his work. 

A silence fell, Wilson must have gone off script. Chris didn't know how to respond to a freeman introducing themselves. Wilson wanted to tell him that he had bought Greg, but he hadn't really, because he wasn't like that. He wanted to distance himself from the people at Rent-a-Slave who owned human beings, and worked them for many hours a day. He wanted to tell Chris that he'd given Greg a good home, and some sort of future.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck in frustration - he'd forgotten how hard it was to talk to Greg in the early days. He decided to just be direct. "Do you know Greg? He used to work for Rent-A-Slave up until a few weeks ago. He was assigned to the hospital. He walks with a limp."

Chris hesitated, in a way Wilson was familiar with and then responded. "Yes, sir. I knew Greg."

"Well, I just wanted to say... he's doing well. He's with me." That didn't sound quite right but Wilson wasn't going to say that he _bought_ him. "I just thought... maybe people who know him might want to know... that he's okay. He's well."

"Yes, sir." Chris seemed politely indifferent to Greg’s fate – good or otherwise. 

Conversation stopped again and Wilson gave up.

"Okay, I'll be going." He felt a bit foolish so he just nodded a little, waved a hand and went, Chris’s blank eyes following him. 

He went to a bathroom on the next floor, thankfully there was no slave cleaning it. It was still early - in a few hours all the slaves would be out of the public areas for the most part. Slaves were usually out of sight, and out of mind, for the people who didn't deal with them every day. 

He stopped in the cafeteria to grab a quick breakfast and then went back to his office and pulled out the file containing his proposal for the hospital to go 'slave-free'. He hadn't done much work on it since he had first started the file; the pressures of his every day work had kept him from it. He needed to make it more of a priority. He made a list of the department heads who he thought would be supportive of the proposal, or at least not outright opposed to it. Then he made another list of hospital staff who owed him favours - which was a long list - it was time to start calling some of those in. Later today he would go and see Cuddy about a proposal he had for Greg's continued education.

* * *

"I want to bring Greg into the hospital once a week so he can observe some procedures, and get a feel for medicine again." Wilson said at their scheduled meeting in her office. 

Cuddy groaned. She might have known this was coming. Wilson had been enthusiastically telling her about Greg's studies for several weeks now - and had regaled her with some story about how Greg had saved the life of a kid in their apartment building a few weeks ago. She was pretty sure that Wilson wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than Greg being taken on as permanent hospital staff. This was just step one in his master plan. 

"I know he can't have patient contact." Wilson continued, putting on his most earnest face. She wasn't fooled by it; she'd seen him use that on other people too many times. "This would just be to observe. Only in my department, or any other department where I can get permission. Theory can only take him so far."

It wasn't that she didn't have sympathy for Greg's situation. Every time Wilson mentioned him she couldn't help recalling the vibrant young man she'd known in her college days. That man had so much promise that it seemed ridiculous that he would never practise medicine again, or that he was currently Wilson's personal slave. The reality, though, was that the man she'd known barely existed anymore. Wilson reported that Greg still couldn't remember anything about his personal history, and god knows how fucked up he was after twenty years as a slave. He hadn't been a shining beacon of mental stability before all this happened.

"Wilson - let's pretend that Greg isn't a slave. Let's pretend that he hasn't spent the last twenty years cleaning bathrooms rather than practising medicine. Even if we pretend all that he still has a conviction for malpractice that caused a child's death. Not to mention a _murder_ conviction. I can't have him in the hospital anywhere near the patients."

"He killed the man in prison in self-defence, I'm sure of that." 

Wilson had shared the details of Greg's convictions with her and she privately agreed that he was most likely right about that. Whatever Greg House had been, a murderer was not one of those things. Still, that wasn't really the point. The conviction stood.

"I know, Lucas told me you've asked him to keep looking into that. The malpractice is more of a concern for me, and for this hospital. His license was revoked, Wilson."  
"He wouldn't be seeing patients."

"You'd be leading him on; much as you are doing now with encouraging him to study for medical boards he'll never take. They won't readmit him, Wilson, not after everything that has happened to him."

"He can apply - in six years, when he's free - he can apply." Wilson was at his most stubborn. The man was absolutely obsessed with Greg. "He saved a child's life. He can be a doctor again."

"It will take more than some simple first aid to impress a medical board, it would take a miracle." She'd been impressed by Wilson's tale of Greg saving a young child who was choking, but they were skills any paramedic, or even a first aid officer, would possess. Maybe he could do something like that when he was free. Or maybe not, considering his disability. "Wilson, you're doing a good thing with Greg. You're helping him. But don't forget what he is. In six years’ time, when he's free, then we can talk. I'll help him then if I can." Maybe she could find a position in the hospital for him to keep Wilson happy, if he was still interested by then. It wouldn't be as a doctor though.

"If you could see, and talk, to Greg you'd feel differently. He's smart, Cuddy and catching up quickly. He's not like..." Wilson did one of those arm wavy gestures by which she gathered he meant _those other slaves_. The ones that weren't Greg.

"That's the thing Wilson - I _can't_ meet him, because when he saw me he immediately became completely non-functional. That's how damaged he is. Even in six years time, when he can be freed, he'll probably still be like that."

She glanced at her phone; it was time she got back to work. She lightly touched Wilson on the arm. "Keep helping him, James. I'm glad he's got someone like you. Just don't expect more of him than he can achieve. It isn't fair to him - or to you."

She walked away, aware that Wilson was staring after her, his arms crossed across his chest. His stubborn pose. This wouldn't be the last she'd hear of this by a long shot.

* * *

After his morning work Greg took his usual shower. He still hadn't gotten over the feeling of standing in perfect solitude and allowing the water to cascade over him. No-one was standing there watching him, a crop or baton in hand, waiting for him to take too long or do the wrong thing. No other slaves jostled him for favoured position. Above all else the water was _hot_.

For his first few showers after Wilson purchased him, he'd had quick ones, with the water barely warm. He had been afraid of using too much water, or too much power, or too much _something_. Rent-A-Slave had always emphasised to the slaves that keeping them was costing the company a great deal of money, and the slaves were required to earn all that back before they were profitable. A slave who wasn't worth their keep wasn't worth keeping. 

Over time, when no adverse consequences emerged, he had lengthened his showers, and turned the heat up. He eventually realised that Wilson truly didn't care about how much water he used, or how much food he ate. He'd seen Wilson pay for his weekly physical therapy appointment, signing a check for an amount of money that would have fed all the slaves at Rent a Slave for a week. 

It had been the same with the ingredients for the meals Greg cooked. Whatever he requested was purchased without hesitation. Greg was tempted to start requesting some outrageously expensive ingredients to test the limits of Wilson's generosity but he really didn't want to find that limit. He liked to think that there wasn't one. 

When he finally finished his shower he switched the water off, and grabbed the clean towel he'd laid out ready. A few minutes later he had dried off, shaved, and dressed himself. He poured a cup of coffee and cut a slice of cake for himself, and sat down at the table with his laptop and the file Wilson had given him. 

He had been returning to the file every day for the last few weeks. He'd delved into all the medical details that the detective had included, and searched out some of his own. This was the case that had led to his initial imprisonment, and started the chain of events that had ended in his enslavement. He had researched the medicine, and explored several different alternatives that he could have taken with the patient. Each led to the same event, his patient's death. The only difference was that the course he'd taken had led to his own downfall as well. 

He stared at the file for a minute, deciding whether to look at it yet again and then shook his head. No, there was nothing else to learn there. He set it aside firmly and opened up a new browser. A clean one. 

He'd learned how to use the internet as anonymously as possible. He didn't think that Wilson was checking his usage, or his internet history, but of course he would have a perfect right to. There were the authorities to be considered as well - if Greg got into trouble for poking into the dark corners of the 'net there might be a backlash onto Wilson - and he couldn't allow that. So he'd covered his tracks thoroughly.

It wasn't easy, making contact with those who opposed the institution of slavery. There _was_ an underground network, but it was small, and well hidden. A word here, a carefully chosen comment there, and he'd gradually made contacts. He never revealed he was a slave himself but he listened and absorbed as much as he could. 

He'd asked a question a few days ago and now when he turned to his disposable email account he found an answer - a name. Tapping one finger on the side of the computer he considered carefully. He'd been looking to see if anyone knew of a way to reverse the conditioning he'd received that made it impossible for him to recall his past. This man might have the answer. A procedure that he had developed, to aid former slaves in returning to society. 

Greg wasn't a 'former slave' of course, it was possible that the doctor would not even consider taking him on as a patient until he was freed, or that Wilson would forbid it. Greg had no way of paying even if Wilson did allow him to explore the option. But making contact would be the first step towards regaining who he had been.

He looked again at the case file and opened it, to extract the old photo of himself. Could he ever hope to be that man again?

He didn't know - so much had happened to him, so much time had passed. He didn't even know if he _wanted_ to be a man who could gamble so much without seemingly a second thought. A man who cheated at medical school, and had been unable to stay out of trouble in prison. 

He didn't know if he wanted to be that man, but he would never know unless he knew who that man was. The first step was to remember.

He emailed his contact back.

* * *

Wilson liked going home at night. Before, he used to linger for long hours at the hospital, long after his official work for the day was done. Now he had a reason to get home on time every night he could manage.

He and Greg would usually enjoy a nice dinner, before he helped Greg clean up. Then Greg would show him what he'd been studying that day, and ask him any questions that had cropped up during the day. Sometimes he would discuss some of his current cases with Greg, leaving out any patient's names. At first Greg had just listened passively. Now he interrupted with questions or, on rare occasions, suggestions for future treatment, or investigation. Once or twice he'd asked to see scans, or further results which Wilson didn't have to hand. The second time it had happened Wilson had found himself driving back to the hospital to pick up the required items. They'd spent that evening going over the treatment options available, with Greg's questions sparking the idea for a radical approach that Wilson hadn't considered before. 

In the evening, when any work Wilson had brought home from the hospital was done, they usually watched television. Wilson had also picked up a PlayStation and some games and Greg had taken to them quickly. They spent many hours playing the games. Greg became more confident with his conversation when he played the games, slipping in an occasional insult or taunt as he pounded Wilson's character into the ground in a fighting game, or picked him off with a sniper shot, or blew past him on the racetrack. Occasionally he even smiled when he won a game.

Sometimes Wilson could forget that they weren't just two friends hanging out with each other. 

He told Greg about his aborted attempt to get him some practical experience in the hospital.

"If Cuddy could just meet you, and talk to you, she'd see that you could do this. You've come so far."

There was a pause, as there often was when Greg wanted to phrase what he was saying carefully. "Wilson, I think she's right."

That wasn't a surprise, Greg consistently under-rated his abilities. 

"You need to have some clinical experience, even if it's not hands-on," Wilson argued. "There's no reason you couldn't come in with me and observe. Your medical education is the equal of my junior doctors now, and you're getting better every day."

"It's not just about the medical knowledge, you know that. I'm still a slave. _You_ see me as something else, but to everyone else I'm just a slave. Nobody is going to want me watching their procedures, or even being in the same room with them."

"We're a teaching hospital."

"Teaching medical students, not slaves." Greg shook his head. "This collar is all they'll see." His hand hovered over his collar, not touching it. He never touched it. 

"We need to change that."

"That's easy for you to say, you're not the one wearing the collar," Greg snapped and then his eyes widened. He'd never raised his voice to Wilson before. "I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have said that."

He looked stricken and Wilson smiled reassuringly.

"I told you, Greg. You can speak freely with me. I'm not going to get angry at anything you say. I _want_ you to tell me what you're thinking. I'm glad that you feel comfortable enough around me to get angry. You don't need to worry about how I'll react." He gently touched Greg on the arm. Greg didn't flinch now when he did that. "I've never hurt you, have I?"

"No," Greg said softly. "You haven't. You've been very kind to me."

"So, say what you want to say."

"You want me to be a doctor again, some day," Greg said, talking quietly, and still not quite looking at him.

"Yes, and I thought that was what you wanted too." Wilson knew he had pushed Greg, but once he'd started studying Greg had shown as much enthusiasm for that as he had for anything. 

"Maybe I would, one day if it's possible. But there's something I want more. I want....” He trailed off, staring at the floor and then after a moment started again, his tone firmer. “I want to remember who I am."

Of course, it always came down to that. Everything that Greg was, or wasn't, was tied to the block on his memories. Wilson had always known that they would have to break that down if Greg was to ever reach his potential. 

"I can ask around, do some research," he suggested. "I can see if there is anything that will help overcome your memory block. I thought it might dissolve once you started studying, or after you found out about your history. But it hasn't, has it?"

Greg shook his head. "No, not really. I've tried to get through it but I can't. When I read through that file it's like it's talking about someone else - not me. Before you bought me I didn't care - I thought it would be better not to remember what I had before, when I was free."

"But now you care."

Greg met his eyes. "I need to know."

"Okay, first thing tomorrow, I'll start looking into it."

Greg looked down at the ground again. His hand sought out his cane that was never far from his side. His hand gripped around it and he began fiddling with it. 

"I already... I already did, sir." He looked up, a touch apologetically but with resolve in his expression. "I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have done it without permission."

Wilson was oddly pleased that Greg had progressed to such a point that he had looked into this without being told to. He smiled, knowing he was confusing Greg.

"It's okay, Greg. I'm glad you did. That's why I gave you the computer, so you could research things. So, what did you find out?"

"There's a psychiatrist who specialises in this - I've been in contact with him. He normally treats freed slaves, but he says he's willing to see me and assess my condition. I would need your permission of course."

"You've got it. I'll come with you. Where does he practise?"

"In New York."

"Great, that's not too far. We'll go and see him. What's his name?"

"Darryl Nolan." 

Wilson nodded. "Okay, set up an appointment with him and we'll go see him." He’d research the doctor first, find out if he had a good reputation but at least it was a place to start. "If he can help you we'. Now come on, you beat the pants off me last round, it's time for my revenge."

Greg stared at him for a moment, and then picked up the controller with a look of determination. "Not if I can help it."

They played long into the night.


	18. Chapter 18

Nolan took appointments on Saturday mornings so Wilson made one for the first Saturday he could get in - which was three weeks ahead. That gave him plenty of opportunity to research both the doctor and his methods. What he found out was hopeful. Nolan had published several journal articles in the field, and was also well known for his opposition to the techniques used on slaves - especially memory suppression. He was also an advocate for abolishing slavery completely, and refused to work in any hospital that used slaves in any capacity. 

On the morning of their appointment they set off early. Greg was obviously nervous and anxious but the car journey appeared to settle him down somewhat. Wilson loved watching him as Greg watched the traffic. Whatever else Greg may or may not have been in his previous life Wilson was pretty sure that driving a car, or maybe riding a bike - given the way he eyed any motorcycles that passed them - had been one of the things that gave him pleasure. 

They parked up and made their way on foot to Nolan's offices. The streets were, as usual, filled with a colourful assortment of tourists, workers, and residents and even the collar around Greg's neck barely rated a second glance from anyone. There was a certain anonymity gained from being surrounded by thousands of people that Wilson treasured. Unlike in Princeton when being out in public with Greg still garnered lots of stares, and even the odd muttered comment, here nobody appeared to care. They were just another two people going about their business in a busy city.

Darryl Nolan's office turned out to be a comfortable suite, tastefully furnished with comfortable chairs and no sign of a couch anywhere. The receptionist ushered them straight in and Nolan greeted Greg warmly when Wilson introduced him, presenting his hand to be shaken with no hesitation. 

"Greg, it's a pleasure to meet you at last."

Greg glanced at Wilson and then shook the doctor's hand. 

"Thank you for seeing me, Doctor Nolan," he said in his quiet voice. 

"Take a seat." Nolan ushered Greg to a chair in front of his desk. "Would you like Doctor Wilson to wait outside while we talk? We can always call him in afterwards if we need to make arrangements."

Greg stared at him with wide eyes then gave Wilson a desperate look. 

"It's okay if you want me to, Greg," Wilson said, although he hoped Greg wouldn't take him up on the offer. He wanted to hear what Nolan had to say. He wasn't about to let Nolan mess with Greg's head without hearing more about the process. 

"I... I would like him to stay," Greg said after a pause. "Please."

"Of course, Greg. Whatever you want. If you change your mind at any time let me know." He turned to Wilson. "Take a seat, please." Nolan waved him to a slightly less comfortable looking chair. 

Wilson sat, trying to squelch his feeling of irritation. It was good that Nolan was treating Greg with respect. He could put up with Nolan's apparent animosity towards him. Nolan's opposition to slavery was well known - he probably viewed Wilson as just another slave owner. Wilson wanted to explain that he wasn't but the important thing here was Greg - this appointment was for him. 

Nolan focused almost exclusively on Greg - drawing out of him the story of his enslavement and how he came to be with Wilson. Greg answered his questions steadily, glancing at Wilson often. He faltered when Nolan asked him about his experiences before coming to live with Wilson.

"I know it's difficult to talk about, Greg. But those years are still part of who you are - as much as the years when you were free. We'll talk more about it when you have your memories back."

"You believe you can recover my memories?" Greg asked. Nolan had made no mention of it up until this point.

Nolan nodded. "It's not a difficult process, although it is often traumatic for the patient. I've successfully helped many ex-slaves break the blocks and retrieve their repressed memories."

"That's great news - when can you fit Greg in?" Wilson asked when Greg didn't say anything further.

Nolan turned his attention on him - his gaze sharp and penetrating. Wilson felt he was being examined under a microscope.

"There are many things we need to talk about before we get to that stage, Doctor Wilson. I've never treated a patient who is still enslaved before. That changes a number of things - both legally and morally."

"I have already given my permission for Greg to try this."

"That's... very noble of you. What makes you think you have any permission to give?"

Wilson was caught. He didn't want to say he 'owned' Greg, or that he was Greg's 'master' - even though both things were true. "Greg can do what he wants, of course," he said finally. "I just meant... if there were any legal steps that have to be taken... I can... I fully support Greg."

"If he decides to proceed with this treatment we will have to discuss how this will work. In patient treatment is required in the initial stages - a hospitalization of at least two weeks, maybe more. You will have to either stay with Greg - which I wouldn't recommend - or assign your 'rights' to him to me for that period."

Wilson immediately felt protective of Greg. He didn't like the idea of anyone acting as Greg's 'owner' and having that sort of power over him - however amiable Nolan might seem.

"I can stay with him."

"As I said, I don't recommend it. Greg would need to focus on his own healing - getting his memories back. If he is also concerned about you, and your reactions, and pleasing you it will make it more difficult for him."

"He doesn't need to be worried about any of that, I just want what's best for him."

"Greg has been trained - conditioned - to place your needs above his own. He's been your slave for months. You must have realised that."

Wilson slowly nodded. It had become apparent to him very early on that Greg had almost no regard for what he personally wanted or needed. Wilson had tried hard to show him that he was allowed to think about his own interests. He thought Greg had made some progress but he still put Wilson first. 

"You also need to consider what effect this will have on Greg. This process isn't specifically designed to break his slave conditioning, much of that comes from his own experiences as a slave, but recovering his memories is a step towards regaining some of his own autonomy. It could make his remaining years as a slave much more difficult for him - especially if you were to sell him and he was to have a new master. "

"I would never 'sell' Greg." Wilson said firmly, looking at Greg who was looking increasingly worried, his hands wrapped around the handle of his cane. "I've told you that before. And I mean it. Even if I wanted you gone, and I don't, I don't have the right. You're a human being, not a piece of furniture. I'd tear up those ownership papers if I could. I don't expect you to behave like a slave - either now, or after the procedure."

"So what is Greg to you then, Doctor Wilson? If you don't see him as your slave?" Nolan asked, leaning forward in his seat and fixing him with a stare. 

Wilson kept looking at Greg.

"He's my friend. I hope he thinks that too." He hoped Greg would say something but instead he bit his lip and looked down at the floor. Wilson looked across at Nolan.

"Greg is a slave, Doctor Wilson. He's your slave. I'm sure he feels that you've been kind to him, but the idea that you are a friend to him is foreign."

"No." Greg looked up; his voice was soft, but definite. "You're wrong. I think Doctor Wilson is my friend. I didn't at first... I wondered what he wanted from me, why he was doing the things he did. But he's never asked anything of me, and he's given me so much. He is still my owner, but he is also my friend." His eyes met Wilson's and he gave a small smile. 

Nolan looked surprised and Wilson felt a surge of pride in Greg. He'd come so far in a few months. Nolan might have had a lot of experience with slaves, and freed slaves, but he didn't know Greg like Wilson did. 

When they left Nolan's office it was with a booking for Greg for a stay in Mayfield, a mental hospital not far away. He'd be an inpatient there and undergo intensive therapy. Wilson had agreed to assign Nolan temporary authority over Greg, and to stay away for the duration of Greg's stay.

 

"If you need me, at any time, I want you to ring me," Wilson said as Greg stared at the contents of his closet. He usually didn't come into Greg's bedroom, but he was oddly reluctant to let him out of his sight today. They were driving up to Mayfield that afternoon for Greg's stay." I can be there within three hours. Nolan says he'll look after you - so if anyone gives you a hard time you need to tell him. Don't forget you're there voluntarily - nobody can make you stay if you don't want to."

"I will," Greg replied seriously but Wilson had the impression he was humouring him. He'd spent twenty years as a slave with no recourse against mistreatment - the thought of a stay in a mental hospital probably wasn't very scary to him. He was nervous about the treatment he was scheduled to receive, and what he would find out when the memories came back. Greg had researched the hell out of the procedure since their appointment with Nolan, and emailed the doctor with questions several times. Nolan had answered him thoroughly - as one medical professional to another. Wilson had also done his fair share of researching, finding nothing to alarm him. Both Nolan and Mayfield had sterling reputations. Still, neither was used to dealing with patients who were still enslaved. 

He noticed that Greg was still staring at the clothes in his closet. Wilson had purchased a suitcase for him and it sat open on the bed but so far it was empty.

"Is something wrong?"

"What should I take? How many shirts?" Greg asked and Wilson understood. Greg had never packed for a stay away before. As a slave he'd previously only ever had the clothes on his back and had never gone anywhere anyway. On top of that making decisions about his own needs was still a struggle for him.

Well, one thing Wilson knew a bit about was packing. He sized up the suitcase. Greg still didn't have a lot of clothes and the simplest way was to take everything appropriate for the season. He quickly pulled out Greg's long sleeved shirts and his jeans and a handful of t-shirts and packed them into the case.

"Wear your jacket, that's one thing less to pack." The weather was getting cooler and by the time Greg returned winter would be well and truly on the way - they'd have to go shopping to get him some real winter clothes.

Greg fetched his toiletries from the bathroom and Wilson added them to the case. With the suitcase packed he looked around the room, it was still as neat and tidy as the day he'd made it ready for Greg. He swore that even the magazines on the nightstand were placed at the same angle as that day - although the titles had changed. Besides the clothes the only additions were Greg's guitar - neatly hung on some hooks on the wall - and the computer, packed away neatly in a case when not being used.

"You know, you can change this room around if you want. We can even paint it if you'd prefer a different colour. "

Greg looked around the room. "It's fine like this. Unless you want to change it."

"No." Wilson realised he'd spoken more harshly than he intended. "No, I just want you to be comfortable here. It's your home - you should feel free to make changes if you want."

Greg looked startled. "You've given me a place to call home. Why would I care about the colour of the walls?"

Wilson smiled. "I guess you wouldn't." He hefted the suitcase. "Come on, let's grab something to eat and get going. Nolan's expecting us."

 

They'd both seen pictures of Mayfield on the internet of course but in person it was even more imposing. The large gothic building was surrounded by well-manicured grounds and Wilson shivered as they walked up the long drive. The place couldn't look more stereotypically 'mental hospital' if it tried. He wondered how many prospective patients cut and run as they approached the doors.

As if in answer to his thoughts the main doors opened and an orderly emerged, flanked by Doctor Nolan.

"Greg, Doctor Wilson, good to see you." He nodded to the orderly and the man took Greg's suitcase. "We just need to check the contents. Standard procedure. It will be taken to your room afterwards."

Greg looked after the retreating orderly wistfully and then at Wilson. Wilson smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Truthfully he felt almost as nervous as Greg, and guiltily pleased that he would be able to leave in a little while. He didn't envy Greg his stay.

Greg's intake forms were mostly filled out already and Nolan had both of them sign them, although only Wilson's signature was strictly necessary in the case of a slave receiving medical treatment.

"Did you bring the other form?" Nolan asked as he shuffled the paperwork into a folder. Wilson nodded and reluctantly handed over the document. It was a temporary transfer of custody form - assigning all rights to Greg to Doctor Nolan for the duration of his stay here. The form included a paragraph about Nolan having the right to physically punish, restrain and discipline Greg.

"I won't ever touch him," Nolan said, meeting his eyes. "Except for his treatment. You have my word on that." He looked at Greg. "Both of you."

"I know." Wilson felt in his pocket for the control to Greg's collar and laid it on the table in front of them. "I've set the radius on his collar to the perimeter of the grounds. It's still on alarm only, no shock."

Nolan looked at it distastefully, making no move to take it. 

"Please, take it," Greg said. He'd been quiet during all the preliminaries, so much so that Wilson was surprised to hear him speak now. Greg never mentioned his collar, or the controller to it, normally. He guessed that the idea of having the controller just lying around somewhere was more worrying to him than the knowledge that Nolan would have it. 

Nolan still hesitated but then picked it up and slipped it quickly into his pocket. Greg relaxed slightly and Wilson completed the paperwork.

"We'll take it from here, Doctor Wilson," Nolan said firmly as Wilson hesitated to leave. "I'll message you when Greg is ready to be discharged."

Wilson nodded and stood up. Greg followed suit and Wilson put out his hand to be shaken. After a moment's hesitation Greg put his own out and they shook hands.

"Take care of yourself, Greg. Remember, you can call me any time if you need me." 

"Yes, sir." 

Wilson hesitated again and then gently clapped Greg on the shoulder before turning and walking out of the room. He looked back as he left to see Greg still standing there, looking after him.

His drive home was long and quiet.


	19. Chapter 19

He was shown to his room by an orderly - who made it clear that he was not impressed with having to escort a slave. As soon as they were out of sight of Nolan the orderly thrust his case at him.

"Here's your crap. You can carry it, I'm sure you're used to that."

Greg took the bag without complaint, and without letting the orderly's attitude rankle him. He was pleased to have his possessions back and the added weight as he walked wasn't hard to handle and - as the man had said - he was used to it.

His room, when they reached it, was a small one with two beds rather than the ward he had expected. The beds weren't as luxurious as the one at Wilson's apartment but were an improvement on the beds at Rent-A-Slave. Other than the bed the room was minimally furnished. There was a small closet and a bare nightstand. He glanced between the two beds, unsure which was his.

"You're on your own. Even the crazies wouldn't want to sleep with a slave," the orderly said. "Rec room is down the hallway, if they let you use it, Don't make a mess - somebody else has to have this room after you. Guess they'll probably fumigate it first." 

After the orderly had left he carefully unpacked his clothes from the suitcase. They had been rifled through and were a little creased. He wondered if he would be allowed to iron them. After unpacking he sat on the bed and surveyed the room.

His first appointment with Doctor Nolan had been scheduled for today but the doctor had been called away on an emergency not long after Wilson left. Doctor Nolan had apologised and then explained that Greg was free to spend his time however he wished - as long as he didn't disturb any of the other patients who were here for more regular treatment. There were therapy groups he could join if he wanted to, but he wasn't obliged. 

He thought about staying in his room until dinner time but curiosity eventually won out. The orderly had mentioned a 'rec room' where he could go so he gave a glance around his room to make sure everything was put away and tidy, and then picked up his cane and ventured out. 

The room was empty when he arrived and as he entered a nurse in a glass fronted office watched him. He nodded to her, unsure what else to do, and moved into the room. 

"Are you Greg?" the woman asked from behind the counter. 

"Yes, ma'am," he responded quickly, stopping where he was and turning to face her. 

"It's okay," She smiled at him. "We were told to expect you. You can have a look around. The other patients are all outside for exercise. They're playing basketball if you want to join them." She looked uncertainly at his cane. "Or if you want to just watch. Just through that door there and down the stairs."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said and turned to go in the direction she indicated. He wasn't very interested in watching other people play basketball, but he was always happy to take any opportunity to get outside. 

He stopped short as he caught sight of a piano, sitting neglected in the corner of the room. It wasn't anything fancy, just an old upright, with a battered stool. The cover over the keys was down.

He found himself drawn to it, just as he had to Wilson's old guitar. Mayfield's rules had prevented him bringing the guitar with him and the piano was a tempting alternative.

"Do you play?" the nurse had left the office and was standing next to him. "We keep it locked because most of our patients are more enthusiastic than skilled but if you play I can open it up for you while they're outside."

"I... I don't know. I can play the guitar," he said. 

"Well, why don't we find out?" She unlocked the lid and pushed it up out of the way. A row of white and black keys stood silently before him. He slipped onto the bench and tentatively pressed middle C. 

"It needs tuning, ma'am," he said as he ran through a scale. The positioning of his fingers came to him without thought. 

"I'm not surprised; it doesn't get a lot of use." A phone rang and the nurse excused herself and went to answer it, leaving Greg alone with the piano.

He did a few more scales and then launched into a simple tune. His playing was slow, his fingers were stiff, and he hit a couple of wrong notes but it was beautiful music to him. Just like the guitar it just came back to him. This was another thing he had inside of him that he didn't know about - he could play the piano. 

When he was finished he launched straight into something else, and then another song. He forgot where he was, what was going to happen, and even the collar around his neck.

He was aware of other people entering the room after a while but he kept playing. He didn't stop until someone came and sat next to him on the piano bench. Startled, he stopped playing and stood up - ceding the place to the free person who wanted it. 

The new arrival reached out a hand and started to thump the keys and he winced at the discordant noise but turned away. It wasn't his piano. The man was a free person; he could make as much noise as he wanted.

He was startled to see a crowd of people had formed in the room. Some of them were clearly patients but there was also a few hospital staff watching him. Some of the patients started to come up to him, asking questions and talking, and he started to back away, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by being the focus of attention of so many people.

"That was great, Greg. I didn't know you could play." He looked around to see Doctor Nolan by his side, inserting himself between the patients and Greg. He tensed up; afraid he might have done something wrong. Doctor Nolan hadn't specifically said he could play the piano. He waited warily but the doctor smiled and lowered his voice.

"Music is good for the patients. Please play for them whenever you want. Even Jeff enjoyed it." He gestured to the man who had taken his place on the piano bench, who clearly _didn't_ know how to play piano. 

"I didn't know I could play either, Doctor, until just now," Greg admitted. "Wilson gave me his old guitar a few weeks ago and I can play that as well."

Nolan eyed him curiously. "I wonder just how many other talents you have you don't know about?"  
"I don't know, sir."

"Well, I'm sorry I was called away earlier - I know you must be anxious to start. There isn't time to fit you in now, but I've scheduled you for eight tomorrow morning. A nurse will come and get you ready."

Nolan nodded at him and walked off and Greg turned his attention back to the piano where Jeff was still thumping the keys with more enthusiasm than skill. Jeff noticed him and stopped.

"You were really good," he said. "Can you teach me?" 

Greg didn't know what to say. He wasn't a teacher; he was just a slave, something that seemed to have escaped the notice of the people in this room. 

"Please?" Jeff said again, sliding over to make room for him on the bench. 

He sat down and started playing a scale while Jeff watched intently. When he was finished he took his hands off the keys and gestured to Jeff. "Your turn."

He kept teaching Jeff until it was time for dinner.

* * *

"Greg! Greg!"

Someone was calling his name, and he turned towards the voice blindly. 

"That's right, Greg. Open your eyes now. It's all over."

He struggled to obey, finally forcing his eyes open and then blinking in the strong light. He was still in the treatment room, the padded surface of the table soft beneath him. A nurse was cleaning his face and another one was placing a warm blanket over him.

Doctor Nolan was there - looking down at him. 

"The procedure went well, Greg. How are you feeling?"

He blinked his eyes a couple more times as he tried to wake up. The last memory he had was of being given a sedative. He felt his face but the electrodes that had been there had been removed.

"I feel... tired, sir."

Doctor Nolan laughed gently. "Yes, you will. Once we check you over someone will take you to your room and you can sleep."

"Did it work, sir?"

"You tell me. What is your name?"

"Greg House, sir." He said it easily, without any of the nausea or headaches that saying his surname usually incurred. 

"And who are your parents?"  
"John and Blythe House," he said, realising with surprise that he knew. That hadn't been in the file. He thought for a moment and conjured up a mental image of them as he had last seen them. Standing in the courtroom as he was led down to the cells. His father stiff with disapproval, his mother crying. Did they know what had happened to their only son? Were they even still alive? 

"I can remember," he said, as he realised. "I remember them."

Doctor Nolan smiled. "That's good, Greg. We've removed the mental blocks so you should be able to access all your memories. As you know, they weren't removed, just blocked from your access. We'll do a couple of follow up sessions to ensure that the reversal sticks but you'll rest for a few days first. You may find the returning memories disturbing, or upsetting. My staff and I are here for you if you have any problems. You'll have a session with me tomorrow, and every second day after that."

Greg nodded; Doctor Nolan had explained that before. He wasn't sure what the 'session' with the psychiatrist would entail but he would, of course, do whatever he was told.

He probed around his memories, poking at them. He'd spent so many years deliberately not trying to think about his past that it was odd to do so now. He still felt fearful of the pain and sickness coming back - of being punished for trying to remember. 

"Don't push it, Greg. Just let them come to you naturally. It will feel strange at first, but the memories will settle down quickly."

"Yes, sir," he answered, only half listening. 

"I'll help you back to your room."

"We can do that, Doctor," one of the nurses protested. She shot a disapproving look at Greg and he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Apart from the surly orderly most of the staff had been at least coolly professional towards him so far and a couple had been friendly. He couldn't forget though that he was a slave in a hospital meant for free patients. Regaining his memory didn't alter the fact that there was a collar around his neck.

"I can go by myself, sir," he said, standing up and looking around for his ever present cane. Doctor Nolan handed it to him.

"I know you can, but I did promise Doctor Wilson that I would take care of you. If you collapse in the hallway how would that look?"

Once they were back in Greg's room Doctor Nolan insisted he lie down on the bed. 

"Best thing you can do is get some sleep, Greg. Let things settle in your own head for a while. These two weeks are to give you time to adjust without worrying about working for Doctor Wilson, or doing anything but looking after yourself. How are you settling in here? Is everyone treating you well? They're not used to having a slave for a patient, let me know if anyone is giving you a hard time and I will take care of it."

For the most part everyone had been kind, and Greg wasn't going to bother the doctor with the few harsh words and looks he'd experienced. It was nothing. He assured Doctor Nolan that he was doing well. 

After the doctor had left he got up and went to the small window in his room. Although it was barred he could see through to the grounds around the hospital. His head was still spinning from the amount of new information he was absorbing. Memories of his childhood, memories of his time as a doctor, and of his time in prison. 

He thought back to the day when he had agreed to become a slave. It was a long time ago and the memories were murky but he knew he had stood at a window in a prison cell and stared out as he was doing now. He'd seen no future for himself. His life would be under threat every day he was in prison, and he faced years of being confined to a cell in solitary for his own protection. Slavery had seemed, ironically, to be a source of freedom for him. 

He reached a hand up and after a moment’s hesitation he touched the collar around his neck. He was still a slave, but for the first time in a long time he now felt a sliver of hope for the future. Doctor Wilson, and now Doctor Nolan, had given him that. 

Fatigue overwhelmed him and he lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep was quick in coming.


	20. Chapter 20

"What would you say if I told you I can secure a donation of five million dollars over three years from Jessica Cordwin?" Wilson said, dropping a folder onto Cuddy's desk as he took a seat. "A general donation - not just for oncology." He sat back and smiled at her smugly.

Cuddy looked up at him, her eyes widening. Jessica Cordwin was on the Board's list of possible donors but nobody had been able to even get an appointment with her, let alone secure a donation. Five million would be a donation worth celebrating. 

"What's the catch? You have to give her your first born?"

"No. That one's already spoken for." Wilson sat forward and regarded her intently. "It's on the condition that the hospital go 'slave-free' by the end of the year, and that we publicise it as such."

"Wilson..." Cuddy groaned. "I said, put up a proposal - not go out hunting up donors who are looking at making political gestures."

"I want this to happen, Cuddy. Not be pushed off on some committee. I told you, there's money out there for institutions that make the switch. Ms Cordwin is only the start. She may be making a 'political gesture' but her money spends the same."

"And what's going to happen when all these worthy citizens find out that you yourself own a slave? Have you bothered mentioning that to them?"

Wilson's silence gave her the answer.

"If you sold him it would give you more credibility."

"Even if I wanted to, which I don't, I wouldn't. He's not mine to sell. He's not _anyone’s_ to sell. He's a human being for heaven's sake. I only bought him to get him out of slavery, as much as I can."

"The law doesn't agree with you."

"I don't care what the law says. Greg is staying with me, until he no longer wants to." Despite his words he looked faintly worried, the smile gone from his face.

"Until he no longer wants to? Are you two having a lover's quarrel? Come to think of it you have been coming in earlier and leaving later this week. Has the 'save Greg' campaign hit a bump in the road?"

"Greg is..." he hesitated, "he's not at home at the moment. He's having some treatment."

"Treatment? For his leg?"

"No, although I wish there was something more we could do for that... if he'd had proper treatment at the time... No, it's to get his memories back, Cuddy. They're going to remove the memory block those bastards put on him."

"Is that wise?"

Wilson shrugged. "There's no point debating it, it's already done. He's undergone the procedure and apparently it was successful. Next time you see him he should be able to stay in the same room with you. You two might have a bit to talk about."

That was going to be... interesting. She wondered how the restoration of his memories would affect Greg. The man she had so briefly known was arrogant, and proud, and a pain in the ass. All qualities she thought would be disastrous in a slave - which was no doubt why his memories had been blocked in the first place. How much of the old Greg House would remain after twenty years spent as a slave? 

"So, in answer to your earlier question - if Ms Cordwin, or anybody else, questions why I am the 'owner' of a slave - I'll tell them the truth. That I bought Greg so that he could obtain proper treatment and medication for his pain, and so that he could have a better life. I'd free him today if I could, but as long as I legally can't I'm going to give him the best possible life it's possible for him to lead, and help him make a future for himself."

She looked down at the folder in her hands. The money was tempting, although she was wary about letting someone use the hospital to further their own agenda - she'd allowed Edward Vogler's millions persuade her to do that once and it had nearly destroyed them. 

On the other hand she wasn't being asked to support medical trials that bordered on unethical. She was being asked to replace one type of worker with another. The slaves did useful work, but it was unskilled labour, and there were many people in the local area that needed work. With the right spin this could look good for the hospital, and they'd come out ahead financially. 

"Arrange a meeting with Ms Cordwin," she said. "No promises but if the numbers work out right then I'll back your proposal to the Board."

He smiled that charming Wilson smile which had once made her think she could fall in love with him.

"Thanks, Cuddy."

* * *

_  
He waits at the door for his father to come home. When he does he runs to him and he's swung high into the air, until he sits on the man's shoulders. He laughs and holds on tight. _

_They're arguing downstairs and he pulls the blanket over himself, keeping the warmth while he can. The voices go quiet and he hears his father's heavy footsteps on the stairs._

_The night is cold and lonely and he huddles by the door to the house, until the lights go off inside._

_"You're not my father, and I hate you." He screams at the man who raised him and feels a slap rock his head back._

_The bike roars underneath him and he's off, dirt and gravel spraying up behind him._

_She's waiting when the band finishes. Her lips meet his and her hand travels towards his belt, promising good things to come._

_He cuts into his first cadaver and sees the beautiful mysteries of the human body for the first time. He’s hooked._

_A child dies while he watches. He slams his hand against the door. He's failed._

_His boss stands over him as he empties out his desk, beyond her he can see the police waiting. She tells him there's nothing she can do to help._

_He gets off the bus at the prison, his hands cuffed in front of him. As he's marched into the office he feels eyes watching him._

_There’s blood, so much blood. He looks down at his stained hands and knows his life is over._

_They put a piece of paper in front of him and tell him to sign it. It will make his life better. He'll get out of the prison. He holds the pen clumsily in bruised fingers and signs._

_A collar is fastened around his neck._

_He's strapped down, and a drip placed in his arm. Headphones are placed over his ears and his head is blocked so he can't look away._

_He screams._

 

He sat up in the bed, his heart pounding. The memories threatened to overwhelm him and he pressed his hands against his eyes, trying to force them back. 

"Everything okay in here?" A nurse stood in the doorway, a flashlight in her hand, pointing it at him. "You were making a noise." Her voice is clipped, impatient.

He took his hands away from his eyes and bowed his head. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I was dreaming."

"Well, keep it down; you don't want to wake the whole ward up do you?"

"No, ma'am."

He lay back down on the bed but it was a long time before he could get back to sleep.

* * *

It was easy to slip back into the routine of institutional living. The ward was roused at seven and he fell in with the rest, shuffling along to the communal bathroom. Then he returned to his room to make the bed and tidy up, before going along to the dining room for breakfast at seven thirty. It was even served in the same style as it had been at Rent-A- Slave, with each patient lining up at a serving window to receive their food. At least the last person in line received a fair share here. Another patient, Annie, waved him over and he sat next to her, as he had the day before. She smiled at him and surreptitiously took some of the food from her plate and put it on his. He protested but she put a finger to her lips, her eyes smiling.

Breakfast was a lot noisier than it had been in Rent-A-Slave and the other places where he'd been housed. Here people felt free to talk and laugh, even with the presence of an orderly and a nurse, watching over them. 

After breakfast they went back to the rec room and received their meds. When it was his turn at the window the nurse consulted a card with his photo on it (as if there could be any doubt which patient was the slave) and then gave him a small cup with his pain medication in it. He swallowed them and then obediently opened his mouth to be checked. She gave a cursory look and then nodded and he moved away.

There was an hour before any therapy sessions started and the patients generally stayed in the rec room - playing games or watching the small television. Greg joined them. It was still new to him, to be around other people. He knew that at one time, many years ago he would have had no patience for them, but now he enjoyed the interaction and it was better than remaining in his own room with only his own thoughts for company.

He had thought that it would be better once he could access his memories. He would have more of a sense of who he was, and could make decisions about what he wanted his future to be - now that he dared to dream of having one. Instead he found the gulf between the man he remembered being, and the man he was now, so wide that it was difficult to reconcile the two.

He'd once been Greg House, a confident young doctor. Although he'd had a difficult time in medical school - mostly because he had tried to cheat his way through rather than work hard - he'd been looking forward to a bright career. Then had come disgrace, and prison. 

The one thing he had no doubt about was that he had done the right thing medically by his patient. It had been their only hope at the time. It was a gamble that hadn't paid off, but it was a gamble that was worth taking and it was the decision he would want to make again if the same circumstances arose. 

The doubt he had was that he would be _able_ to take that gamble again. He wasn't the man he had once been. For twenty years he had been conditioned to believe that he was nothing more than a slave, a useful tool, a being who could not think for himself, who _should_ not think for himself. He'd been conditioned to obey at all costs to himself. Failure to obey had been met with harsh punishment. A few months of living with Doctor Wilson had begun to show him he could be more, but even now the pull to obey was strong. Although his memories were available to him he felt apprehensive about accessing them, scared of what might happen. Fear was something that Greg House had barely acknowledged could exist - but fear was something that Greg, Doctor Wilson's slave, knew well.

When the group therapy session began the doctor, a young woman called Beasley, came over to him. Her face held its usual friendly smile.

"Greg? Would you like to join us? "

He looked over at the other members of the ward who were drifting in to sit on some chairs placed in a circle. 

"I don't know if I'm supposed to, ma'am," he said. Doctor Nolan had said that he wasn't required to attend the normal therapy sessions. 

She kept smiling. "Well, I heard you've been having some trouble sleeping. Why don't you come and join in? I'm sure the group would like to hear from you."

He took a seat between Jeff, his piano student, and Annie, his breakfast companion. Annie smiled at him and gave his hand a quick squeeze. He nodded to her politely and took his hand back. 

One of the patients, Kevin, scowled at him. 

"He's a slave. I don't even know why he's here. Don't slaves have their own loony bins? He shouldn't be here with us."

"Greg is a patient here, just like you. He's welcome at group. We don't exclude anyone here, Kevin. And we don't use the term 'loony bin' as you well know."

Kevin settled down, although he continued to shoot hostile glances at Greg. Greg ignored him, he was used to hostility.

He listened as the other patients talked. Mentally he made notes. He'd already come to the conclusion that Jeff was suffering from chronic depression and Annie was anorexic. Now he diagnosed the others. Alvie was obviously a manic depressive, Jessie had attempted suicide and Hal was addicted to opiates. Kevin, he decided, was a paranoid schizophrenic. 

"Greg?" He started as he realised Doctor Beasley was calling on him.

"Yes, ma'am?" 

"Is there anything you would like to share with the group?"

He stared at her. What could he say? That until a few days ago he didn't remember anything but being a slave? And now he had those memories back he didn't know what to do with them?

"I..." he tried to say something, as she was waiting, but stalled out. She smiled warmly at him.

"Just say what you're thinking, Greg. How are you feeling?"

"I feel... empty," he said, only then realising it was true. "I thought getting my memories back would help me know who I was. But it only told me who I used to be, not who I am now."

One of the others started to talk and Greg sat back gratefully and let them continue without him.

* * *

Jeff led him to a small area underneath the stairs, near the basketball court. Once there he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to him.

"Do you smoke?"

"I used to." A memory floated up, of being caught with cigarettes at school and suspended. His father hadn't been pleased but it hadn't stopped him smoking on and off all through high school and he'd kept up the habit at medical school as well, and in prison. He'd stopped, involuntarily, when he became a slave. 

Now he took one, and let Jeff light it. The first drag made him cough but he persisted. He used to enjoy this - he wanted to again. 

"So what's the deal with you - what are you in for?" Jeff asked, leaning back against the wall, cigarette held loosely in one hand. 

"I couldn't remember anything about my life, before..." he was reluctant to add _'before I became a slave'_ which was foolish. Jeff obviously knew he was one. There was no hiding it. 

"How long?"

"Nearly twenty years."

"Wow. I wouldn't mind forgetting the last twenty years of my life."

"Nor would I," Greg said. 

"So you can remember now? You said in group that you had your memories back."

"Yes."

"Huh. Must be weird. Did you like, have a wife or a girlfriend or anything? Kids?"

"No." He'd wondered sometimes, when he'd been a slave, whether there had been anyone out there for him. Even if there had been he was sure they would have moved on with their life by now. But now he knew there was no-one, and there weren't really a lot of people who would have missed him after he was imprisoned. Even his mother had rarely visited him in prison - his father not at all. 

"Well, Annie is keen. You could be in there." Jeff gave him a knowing glance.

"Annie?"

"Yeah, man. You must have noticed that she's always hanging around you. There's a place on ward five that people go when they want to get _close_ to one another, if you get my drift. I can show you if you like."

Greg knew that there had been liaisons between the slaves in the various places he'd been kept, and also between slaves and free people. He'd even had a few in the early days. But since the infarction he'd been in so much pain every day that he'd been unable to spend any energy on anything other than work and trying to stay alive. It hadn't even occurred to him that Annie might be interested in him. When he thought about her now, and the possibility, he felt no stirrings of interest at all. Maybe that was another thing he'd lost. 

He was saved from answering Jeff by the appearance of an orderly.

"Outdoor time is over boys," the man announced. "Get back inside, both of you."

Jeff ground out his cigarette. "Yeah, yeah. I hate this fucking place. Get out as soon as you can, Greg."

* * *

Doctor Nolan's office was comfortably furnished, with some paintings of scenery on the walls, various diplomas scattered amongst them. Greg sat in a chair opposite the doctor who had greeted him warmly. His cane was beside him and he kept a hand wrapped around the handle, glad of its steady presence.

"So Greg, what would you like to talk about today?"

"I don't know, sir."

"There's nothing you want to ask, or to say?" Doctor Nolan said, a slight smile on his face. "How about what you said in Group yesterday? Doctor Beasley said you joined in."

"She said it would be okay."

"Yes, it's fine. Join in whenever you like – Group can be very useful therapy. She said that you felt that you didn't know who you were? How did you think of yourself before you came here?"

"As a slave, sir."

"Even after living with Doctor Wilson for a few months you still felt that way? That you were a slave, nothing more?"

"I... began to see that I could be something more one day - and found out that I had been more a long time ago."

"But you still primarily thought of yourself as a slave - as Doctor Wilson's slave?"

"Yes, sir."

"And now?"

"I can remember being something else. I can remember my childhood, going to med school, becoming a doctor. That's who I used to be. I remember how I used to think, what sort of person I used to be."

"And what sort of person was that? How would you describe that Greg House?"

"He was sure of himself. He always thought that he was right." Greg smiled a little. "He wouldn't have agreed to go to group therapy."

“‘He’? Is that how you think of yourself - as two separate people? The Greg House who was a confident young doctor, and the Greg who has been a slave for twenty years."

"I've changed so much. He would despise what I've become. He... I used to rebel against authority. I hated been told what to do. I got suspended from school, expelled from med school, fired from work. I was always in trouble in prison - even before I killed that guy. That Greg House wasn't afraid of anyone, or anything." 

"And now?"

"Now I do what I'm told - without even thinking about it. I don't try and escape, or bend the rules at all. When I think of some of the things that I used to do… some of the things I used to say to people… now I just say 'yes, sir'. Because I'm a slave."

"You know when they blocked your memories they also conditioned you - to be an obedient slave. Did they do that straight away after you were enslaved?"

Greg shook his head, thinking back to those first few weeks as a slave. "No, I was undergoing training. A lot of it seemed really petty. You couldn't do anything without being ordered to, and if they ordered you to do something you had to do it right away, no talking back. I wasn't doing very well at that - I told you I wasn't good with authority. Then one day I was called to the head instructor's office. I thought I was going to be caned again." He fell silent, that moment was the one that had changed his life so completely. He rubbed his thigh, the pain was spiking up as it always did when he was under stress. "They came and took me away. Strapped me to a medical bed. I don't remember anything after that." He rubbed his temples. “When they took me back to the dorm I was a different person.”

"So you didn't give in, you didn't become obedient by your own choice, Greg. They forced you. They took away what you were. For the last twenty years you've done what you had to to survive. You protected yourself from harm, and as soon as you had the chance to grow and be yourself again you took it. You started studying again, and you sought out a way to get your memories back. You've got nothing to be ashamed about, Greg. Nothing. The people who should be ashamed are the ones who did this to you."

Greg felt a warm flush of appreciation and ducked his head to hide his reaction. He knew the old him would have made a smart comment, deflected the praise. He had specialised in driving away anybody who might care about him. Now he craved that feeling. He knew by now that Wilson cared about him, but Wilson wasn't here.

"You don't have to go back to being who you were. It may not even be possible - a lot of things have changed for you. You have different experiences now. You may find that you become someone different altogether - not Greg House, the doctor, and not Greg, the slave, but somebody new."

"I used to think that people couldn't change," Greg remembered saying that to his patients and colleagues.

Nolan raised an eyebrow. "Well, I wouldn't agree with that. People can, and do, change. That's part of what we do here. The choice of who you are, and who you become, is yours. You’ll find a way, Greg."

* * *

When he left the session with Doctor Nolan he went to the rec room, and straight to the piano. Playing it helped him relax. The others weren't there, so he had the room to himself, with only the nurse behind her glassed in wall watching him. He launched into a piece by Beethoven and lost himself to the music. 

"That's so beautiful, what is it?"

He became aware of Annie sitting next to him on the piano stool. She was smiling at him, and he felt his throat go dry.

"Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, Op. 67: Allegro Con Brio," he answered, his fingers stilling on the keys.

"It's lovely. You play so well." She placed her hand on his good leg. Her invitation was plain. 

"Annie, I can't. I'm... “She knew he was a slave, why would she want him?

She put a hand on his cheek; her touch was soft and gentle. Nobody had touched him like that; nobody had wanted him like that, for a long time. He felt a tear spring to his eye, unbidden. 

"No..."

A scream filled the air, and the sound of something dropping to the ground, followed by an instant of silence. They both turned towards the source of the sound. It was coming from down the corridor, where the patient rooms were.

The silence was replaced by chaos as an alarm went off and a person could be heard shouting for an ambulance to be called. Greg grabbed up his cane and quickly limped in that direction as nurses and orderlies rushed past him. 

The patients were beginning to crowd into the corridor, adding their own noise to the chaos.

"Clear the corridor," he heard Doctor Nolan's calm baritone. "All the patients to return to the main room. The situation is under control."

Greg made it to the door where the activity was centred and looked in. 

Jeff was lying on the floor, a small puddle of blood next to him. A nurse was putting pressure on his wrists. 

"Greg, there's nothing you can do. Please go back to the rec room," he felt Nolan's hand on his shoulder. 

Behind him he could hear Annie crying, some of the others were screaming. 

"Greg," Nolan said, looking squarely at him. "We'll look after Jeff."

He closed his eyes, trying to banish the image of Jeff lying there, bleeding out. Doctor Nolan was right. There was nothing he could do that they weren't already doing. He turned away and gently touched Annie on the arm.

"Come away."

He half supported her as they went back to the rec room, and found that most of the others followed them as well. The orderlies chased the stragglers back out and the room was filled with the distressed sounds of the patients. Greg sat back at the piano and began to play. Maybe it would help.

* * *

The ward was quiet. Most of the residents had gone to bed early, either sedated or subdued by the events of the day. The staff patrolled, keeping a keen eye on the patients. Jeff had been taken to hospital, and was reported to be doing well. As well as someone who had tried to kill themselves could be. 

Greg went to the phone in the corridor and dialled the number he had memorised. Wilson should be home from work, probably eating in front of the television. Greg could picture him there, sitting on the couch. Maybe he would have brought some work home with him, or he might be catching up on his emails. 

The phone was answered on the third ring.

"James Wilson." 

"Wilson?" Greg said, suddenly unable to find words. He stared down at his wrists. Twenty years of slavery and he'd never taken that option, although in the worst days, when the pain ate at him, he'd thought about it. He held the phone tightly. "Wilson?"

"Greg?" He heard the alarm in Wilson's voice and could picture him sitting up straighter, leaning forward intently. 

"Greg, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I want to come home."


	21. Chapter 21

Greg woke up early after a restless few hours of sleep. When he'd talked to him last night Wilson had promised to come up and get him today and take him home. He'd also offered to ring Doctor Nolan and tell him, but Greg had said he would do it himself. He needed to start taking back control of his own life. As much as he could anyway because he could never forget that he was still a slave. He touched the collar around his neck, feeling the control box that hadn't been used to punish him for months. Apart from a few remarks from hostile staff members and a couple of the patients he hadn't been treated as a slave here. He'd made a connection to Annie, and to Jeff. Like living with Wilson it had been a glimpse of what used to be normal. 

The thought of Jeff had him getting up restlessly. He slipped on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and grabbed his cane. It was early, but he wanted to stretch his legs. 

He found himself making his way to Jeff's room, which was just a few doors down from his. At the door he stopped. A cleaner was inside scrubbing the hard floor clean of Jeff's blood. The bed had been stripped and Jeff's personal belongings were gone. 

"Greg, you shouldn't be here," the nurse on duty had spotted him. She was one of the friendlier nurses - the one that had first allowed him to play the piano. "Come on, back to bed." She put a gentle hand on his arm. The cleaner had stopped work and was looking at them. Not a slave, Greg noted, but an older lady, her eyes tired. 

"Please, may I help?" He asked the cleaner. She looked at him, noting the collar, and shrugged. 

"Not up to me. The nurse said you should go back to bed."

Greg looked at the nurse. "I don't want to back to sleep. Please, let me do this." 

The nurse threw up her hands. "Well, it's no skin off my nose if you want to do some cleaning. Just keep it quiet please; the other patients are still sleeping."

"Thank you." Greg knelt down, and took the scrubbing brush off the cleaner. He began to work away at the stain. The simple manual labour, something he was so used to, soothed him. Work like this was all he had known only a few months ago. His leg complained of course, but he was used to that as well, and the pain was almost comforting in its familiarity. 

By the time the rest of the ward was stirring Jeff's room was clean and unmarked. No trace remained of what had happened there the night before.

* * *

"I thought you said he would be safe here!" Wilson said, pacing the room while Nolan watched him with that insufferably calm expression of his. 

"He was, and he is. The procedure to remove his memory block, and the follow-up treatment we did was highly successful. Greg can now access those memories that were blocked. I had two sessions with him, and he attended a Group Therapy session and was socialising well with the other patients. I believe that it would benefit him to stay here at least another week for some more sessions but he is here voluntarily and it would be harmful to try and keep him against his will."

"One of these people he was 'socialising' with tried to commit suicide! Don't you have checks against things like that?"

"We do, but it is impossible to completely prevent such instances. The patient involved survived and he'll receive further treatment. Greg, and many of the other patients, witnessed the aftermath and we have had a group session to talk about it. Greg was shaken up but the fact that he was able to request something for himself - for you to come and get him - is actually a hopeful sign in his recovery."

Wilson thought that was probably right. The Greg he had first met wouldn't have been able to articulate something like that, and keep insisting on it despite Nolan trying to persuade him otherwise.

"Greg has given me permission to talk about his case with you, in private. I did want to warn you to be on the look out for signs of trauma. Difficulty sleeping, any evidence that he is experiencing flashbacks or is being triggered by anything in his day to day life. Don't underestimate what the effect of retrieving his memories will be. Greg is trying to reconcile his old image of himself with the person he is now. That is going to be a difficult process for him. Some of his old memories are traumatic by their nature, without even touching the experiences he has had as a slave."

"Has he talked much about his past?" Wilson couldn't deny that he was curious about Greg's past life. He knew a little, and the little he did know was full of traumatic events. What Cuddy had told him about Greg's life in college was also intriguing. 

"We talked a little but there hasn't been time to fully explore the issues. If he is willing I'd like him to continue therapy on an out-patient basis."

"At your New York office?"

Nolan nodded. "Yes, and possibly some group therapy exercises at a later stage."

"I don't want him coming here again." Wilson hadn't liked the idea of Greg staying in a psychiatric hospital in the first place; this 'incident' with the attempted suicide of a patient - who apparently had befriended him - confirmed his fears. Greg had had enough trauma in his life, he didn't need any more.

"The group therapy would also be in New York." Nolan tapped a pen on his desk and eyed Wilson. "However, that does bring us to the reason I asked to see you without Greg being here. Please sit down, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson sat in the chair in front of the desk and immediately felt uncomfortable. He'd been to a few sessions with a therapist after his third divorce but had never persisted because of just this feeling. He didn't like the idea of someone trying to dissect him mentally. 

"I must admit when I first met you I was sceptical of your motives," Nolan continued. "The concept of a 'benevolent slave owner' is inherently contradictory. And yet, Greg considers you a friend - which is a remarkable thing for a slave to believe of his owner. You have also paid a considerable sum of money for Greg's treatment here, and will pay more if he agrees to out-patient therapy. So, I wonder, what _is_ your motivation? Why are you doing all this for Greg, a slave you hadn't even met before a few months ago?"

 _This_ was why he didn't like psychiatrists. 

"He had a fall at the hospital. I felt bad for him. I decided to buy him and try to help him. There's nothing else I can tell you," Wilson said in a 'reciting from rote' tone. Why did people think he had some sort of dark ulterior motive? Was trying to help a slave that unusual?

Doctor Nolan eyed him. "Hmm, I think that just tells me that you're not sure of your reasons yourself. It could be something you'd like to explore further. Greg might become more difficult to handle now that he has his memories back - and you may have to decide whether he is just your roommate, or your slave."

"He is my slave in name only. I don't treat him that way. I will never treat him that way."

"And yet you assert your preferences over his life. You said _"I don't want him coming here again",_ but if he truly isn't your slave that is not your choice to make - it’s Greg's."

"I didn't say I wouldn't let him, just that I didn't want him to do it." Wilson felt a little defensive. Yes, sometimes he made decisions for Greg - but he practically _had_ to in the early days, and now he felt almost protective of him. He really didn't want Greg coming here again - the whole place made him uneasy - but if Greg wanted to Wilson would let him. Just as he'd let him come here in the first place. 

Nolan nodded. "I know, it's a difficult line. It's just one you should be aware of, because it may end up tripping you up. You need to be clear - both with him and yourself - just how you see him functioning in your life, and how he should see you functioning in his." He looked at his watch. "I'll call him in and we can go through the paperwork and discuss setting up therapy appointments for him."

He went to the door and poked his head out. Greg must have been in the waiting area because he came straight in. Wilson was glad to see him. He'd missed Greg's quiet presence for the last week. The apartment had seemed empty and lifeless without him. 

He stood up and nodded warmly in greeting. Greg smiled slightly in return.

"Doctor Wilson, thank you for coming."

"Any time, Greg. How are you doing?"

Greg glanced at Nolan and then back at Wilson. "I am well. The memory block has been removed." 

"Please sit down, Greg. We have some things to go through before you leave." Nolan waved his arm towards a comfortable chair in front of his desk. Wilson took a seat as well.

"I can still leave?" Greg asked, looking anxious. "I know it wasn't what I agreed to."

Nolan put out his hands reassuringly. "No, Greg. It's fine. Like I said to Doctor Wilson I would like you to stay, but I understand that what happened to Jeff was upsetting. You came here voluntarily; you can leave whenever you want. I would like you to consider having some private sessions with me after you leave here - like the ones we've been having. I think it would help you adjust to the memories. But that also is entirely up to you."

Greg seemed uncomfortable, shifting on his chair and glancing at Wilson. Wilson smiled encouragingly. "If you want to it's no problem."

Greg still seemed unsure. "Would I have to come back here?"

"No, to my office in New York. You don't have to decide now. Why don't you think it over and give my office a ring during the week? I think once a week to start with if you want to."

Greg nodded, still looking anxious, and they finished up the rest of the paperwork. By the time they were done Wilson was as ready to leave as Greg. Nolan opened a desk drawer and took out the remote to Greg's collar. 

"You'll need this back," he said with distaste and handed it to Greg. Greg seemed startled and quickly passed it to Wilson like it was a hot potato. Wilson slipped it out of sight, after making sure it was still set to a 'no shock' level. 

"Thank you, gentlemen. Greg, if you need anything anytime, you have my email, and my phone number." Nolan said, holding out his hand.

After a moment's hesitation Greg took it, shaking it firmly. "Thank you, Doctor Nolan."

* * *

In the car on the way home Wilson probed, trying to find out what the Mayfield experience had been like. Greg was quiet; watching the traffic as always, but hesitantly began to open up - talking about what the procedure to restore his memories had been like, and the daily routine of Mayfield. 

"I played the piano," he said finally. "They had an old one."

"You can play the piano?" Wilson didn't know whether he was more surprised that Greg could play the piano, or that he found one to play in Mayfield. 

Greg nodded. "Yes, my Mom got me lessons when I was a kid." He stopped, seeming surprised at the easy knowledge. "Wherever Dad was stationed she always made sure I had a piano somewhere I could play." 

"Stationed?"

"Dad was in the marines. We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Japan, Egypt, lots of different places."

"You remember all that now?"

Greg nodded, his gaze far away. 

"That's great! You can track them down now, find out where they are. Call them. Maybe we can go visit them ----"

"No." Greg said flatly. 

"Not straight away, but when you've had a chance to settle back in." Greg had been apart from his family for twenty years, surely he would want to at least find out how they were?

"No, I don't want to see them."

Wilson couldn't remember when Greg had ever said a flat 'no' to any of his suggested activities before. He backed off. Not all childhood memories were happy after all. Or maybe Greg just didn't want his parents to see him as a slave. He might change his mind at some stage.

There was an uncomfortable silence for the next couple of miles and then Greg said quietly. "I was teaching Jeff to play the piano."

Jeff was the name of the patient who had tried to commit suicide, Wilson remembered. 

"Doctor Nolan said he's going to be okay," he ventured. 

Greg didn't say anything, instead staring out of the passenger window of the car. Wilson sighed and fished around for a change of subject.

"If you decide to go to Nolan for therapy we'll have to make the appointments Friday afternoon - I'll take off work early. You've got physical therapy on Saturdays so you can't do it then." 

"You shouldn't have to leave work early for me." 

Wilson shrugged. "I don't mind, it's not like I don't work enough hours anyway. Only if you want to go. Do you think it would be helpful?" Wilson hoped he would, he didn't have the skills or experience himself to help Greg adjust to his memories returning. It would do Greg good to be able to talk to someone other than him as well. Greg's world was still very small, even if he had more freedom than he had when he was at Rent-A-Slave. At least when he was there he had the other slaves to talk to if he wanted. 

"I would like to go and see Doctor Nolan if I can." Greg hesitated and then continued. "Wilson, I don't want to do physical therapy anymore."

"What?" Wilson was startled; Greg hadn't said anything about it before. "I thought it was helping your leg."

"It makes it hurt a lot worse and there isn't any real improvement. At first there was a little but I think it's plateaued. The cane and the medication help a lot more."

"I really think you should..." Wilson trailed off. This was what Nolan had been talking about. Just as it was up to Greg to decide if he wanted to continue to work with Nolan, it was also up to him to decide if he wanted to do physical therapy. Wilson shouldn't be deciding for him.

"Look, it's up to you, Greg. If you don't want to go, then don't. I thought the therapy was helping though, you never said it wasn't." Wilson couldn't help a little hurt creeping into his voice. He'd been trying to do the right thing for Greg after all. 

"You wanted me to do it," Greg said simply. "And of all the things that an owner has wanted me to do over the years, going to physical therapy was one of the easiest."

He was changing, Wilson realised, growing in confidence. Like Nolan had said it was a good sign that he was willing to ask for things for himself, and make his own decisions about his life. Wilson couldn't stand in his way. Maybe Greg was making a mistake by quitting therapy, but it was his mistake to make. Wilson didn't want him going just because 'his owner' thought he should. 

He supposed it would save him some money anyway, as the sessions with Nolan wouldn't be cheap. 

"Okay, Greg. I'll let them know you won't be coming on Saturdays anymore. Contact Nolan's office when we get home and make an appointment, either for Friday afternoon or Saturday."  
"Thank you, Wilson." Greg said, resuming his study of the passing scenery. 

"I got a new game while you were gone," Wilson said, hoping to lighten the conversation a little. "I've been practising so I can beat your ass when we play."

Greg smiled a little. "We'll see about that."

Wilson laughed and for the rest of the trip they talked about nothing more important than video games.

It was good to have him back.


	22. Chapter 22

Wilson paced in front of him, worry creasing his face. If there was something that Greg had realised since coming back from Mayfield it was that Wilson worried. About him. It was a novel sensation for Greg. As far back as he could remember the only person who had _worried_ about him was his mother. And even she seemed to have given up by the time he hit adolescence.

"I don't know, Greg. Why don't we go together on the weekend?"

"It's just the laundry room, Wilson. I'm not asking if I can go to Atlantic City."

Apart from the brief trip to the hallway when he had saved a choking child from death he hadn't been out of the apartment without Wilson since he arrived. Wilson had been taking care of the laundry duties - although Greg had gone with him a few times. The few people they'd encountered had politely ignored them. Greg was proposing that he do the laundry while Wilson was at work today. 

"Maybe you should do it on the weekend. I'll be here and if you run into any problems I can..."

"Wilson, you're talking about me going to work in the hospital one day - maybe becoming a doctor again - but you don't think I can handle going to the laundry by myself?"

"Of course you can handle it." That was another thing about Wilson; he was a big believer in positive affirmation. "It's just - you're still technically a slave."

"Not just technically." Wilson might not treat him as a slave but there was no 'technically' about it. Greg might have his memories back but he didn't have his freedom. Still, everyone in this building knew he belonged to Wilson - there was no reason for anyone to interfere with a slave doing the laundry - and every reason to expect a slave to be doing just that. "Of course if you don't want me to go, _master_ , then I won't."

Wilson crossed his arms and leaned back on the kitchen counter. "I know when I’m being manipulated, Greg." He sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck in that nervous mannerism he had. "Okay, okay. I've got to get to work anyway. Just be careful."

He was about to leave when Greg stopped him. "You might want to set the control so I can get out the door without the alarm going off. Don't want to drag you away from the hospital."

Wilson smiled. "It's been set at the entrance to the building ever since you went into the 'rescuing children from certain death' business. If you wander down the street I'll know about it. But anywhere in the building is fine."

Oh, he hadn't known that. He hadn't really needed Wilson's permission to go to the laundry room after all. Except, well, he still would have asked for it.

After Wilson was gone he cleaned up the apartment as usual. Wilson had tried his best while Greg was in Mayfield but the place had still needed a good cleaning when he returned. Once regaining his memories Greg realised how ironic it was that he had become such a good cleaner. His childhood had been a well regulated one - his father had insisted that young Greg keep to a military standard neatness, and - like punctuality - Greg had abandoned that idea as soon as he left home. 

Cleaning gave him a sense of satisfaction now, something that a slave couldn't easily achieve. He could look the apartment over when he was finished and be proud of it. The best part of course was that Wilson never ordered him to do it. Greg had thought, when Wilson first purchased him, that Wilson's vague instructions to 'maybe clean up a little' were in fact orders. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, he realised that they were just suggestions. 

So he cleaned. It both gave him a purpose and helped to repay the kindness that Wilson has shown him. They both lived in this apartment, he could keep it clean. 

The laundry represented something more than a desire to help Wilson out. It was a small step in regaining some independence - crazy as that might sound. Doctor Nolan had suggested that he look for opportunities like this when they presented themselves. 

He'd bought his first motorcycle when he was sixteen - now that was _real_ independence. He'd been able to get away whenever he wanted to, and he’d cruised the streets for hours. Well, he couldn't ride a bike now, and doing washing was a poor substitute but it was what he had. 

He gathered up the laundry, sorting it into the bags Wilson used. Greg remembered doing laundry in college. He'd just piled everything he owned into one large bag when he ran out of clothes and hauled it down there. Everything went in together. That was when he couldn't talk - or bribe - some girl or other into doing it for him. Here he would take a little more care. Wilson was meticulous about his clothes, and Greg liked to take care of his too - there was nothing like having nothing but worn and stained clothes for years to make you appreciate nice ones. 

He went to the little jar where Wilson kept quarters for the machines and took a few out, placing them carefully in the pocket of his jeans. Another first - the first time he'd handled money in twenty years. 

Going to the door he hesitated before opening it and then took a deep breath and unlocked it. The hallway outside was deserted, for which he was thankful. He hefted the bags, they were awkward to handle when he had the cane in one hand but he wasn't going to leave the cane behind. He turned and locked the door behind him. With a set of keys in one pocket and money in another he almost felt like a normal person again.

He didn't encounter anyone on the way to the laundry room in the basement, and although one of the machines had some clothes in it there was no one there either. He quickly filled the other machine and set it going. There were a couple of chairs in the room and a vending machine. After hesitating in front of the vending machine he decided that Wilson wouldn't begrudge him a candy bar and he picked one at random - they were all different from the ones that he used to buy in his youth. 

He sat on one of the chairs and pulled an old paperback out of the laundry bag and settled down to wait for the clothes to be done, keeping a wary eye on the entrance to the room.

When another person appeared in the doorway he quickly put his book down and stood up. The lady's eyes opened wide as she took him in, her eyes flicking to his collar. 

"Good morning, ma'am," he said politely, bowing his head. 

Her eyes flicked uncertainly between him and the machine with the washing in. Clearly she'd come to pick up her clothes and hadn't expected to find a slave in the laundry room. Maybe he should have gone back to the apartment while waiting for his clothes to finish. 

"Good morning," she said eventually. 

"I belong to Doctor Wilson - apartment 507," he offered. 

"Yes, I heard he had a... “Her face coloured slightly. 

"A slave. Yes, ma'am." He wondered why so many free people seemed to have a difficult time calling him what he was. "I'm just doing his laundry." 

She gave him a small, nervous, smile and came further into the room, going over to the machine with her clothes. She took them out and quickly put them into a bag before giving him a vague nod and leaving as quickly as she could. 

"Nice to meet you," he said to the empty air. He didn't know why he expected anything else. Maybe because the patients in Mayfield had been reasonably friendly to him. Although that might have been because they identified with him first as a fellow patient, and his status of slave wasn't as important as that. Here, doing Wilson's laundry, he was first and foremost a slave. 

He finished the laundry without further incident and went back to the apartment, after first getting another candy bar from the vending machine. It wasn't that Wilson wouldn't supply him with anything he wanted to eat - he was very generous on that front - but this was something that he was buying for himself, albeit with Wilson's money. There was an important difference there. It seemed ridiculous to be pleased about being able to go and do laundry, and buy a candy bar from a vending machine, but that was his life now. He'd lost so much from what he had been before he'd been imprisoned and enslaved, but he'd gained so much from where he had been before Wilson had bought him. 

When he got back to the apartment, and after he had put away the laundry and ironed what needed ironing, he pulled out his computer. He hadn't considered it before but it was possible he could try and earn some money. Then he could pay for a few little things, without having to ask Wilson all the time. Maybe he could even give Wilson some money towards his therapy costs. It might be possible - he was anonymous on the internet after all, nobody had to know he was a slave. He settled down to research possibilities.

* * *

When Wilson arrived home it was to find Greg totally engrossed in something on his computer. A quick glance at the kitchen showed that there was no dinner being prepared. That was very unusual - in the days since coming back from Mayfield Greg had resumed his usual 'duties' of cleaning the apartment, and cooking dinner. Wilson was used to coming home to a spotless apartment and Greg deep in the final preparations for dinner.

Greg looked up at his entrance. A momentary look of confusion passed over his face then his eyes widened as he glanced at a clock. 

"I didn't realise it was that late." He got up and started to move towards the kitchen.

"Hey, Greg, it's okay, relax." Wilson smiled at him, in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. "We can just order pizza if you like - we haven't had that in a while." 

"I can cook something."

"Yeah, I know you can. But pizza is good too. You don't always have to cook." He pulled out his phone and quickly ordered some. Greg still hovered while he was doing that but then sat back down at the computer.

"What are you up to, anyway?" Wilson asked, walking over and peering over Greg's shoulder at the screen.

"I was seeing if there was anything I could do to earn some money," Greg explained. 

"Oh? Is there something you want? You just have to say, you know." Wilson hadn't really thought about how it must be for Greg - having to ask for anything he wanted. He'd had his moments of poverty while he was in college and med school, but that had been a long time ago. Even at his poorest though he'd always had _some_ money, and if not there had always been family to fall back on. He waved his hands. "Okay, no, I get it. You want your own money. So, how did you go? Any good possibilities?"

Greg showed him a number of websites where he could earn some money for filling in questionnaires, or other small tasks. Wilson had been expecting maybe some medical sites, but he supposed that to actually get paid Greg would have to show some credentials. 

"People are willing to pay for papers too," Greg said. "Those pay pretty well."

"Like, for college?"

"Yes. I used to write a few papers for my fellow students back when I was in college - this would be along the same lines. It's just a bit of research on the internet."

Wilson scratched an eyebrow. That didn't exactly sound ethical, but he guessed Greg wasn't too worried about academic ethics at this stage of his life. 

"So, have you signed up for anything?"

"They all need me to supply a bank account and tax details." 

"Which of course you don't have."

"No."

"Well, you can set them up in my name, and I'll set up a separate bank account. It will be in my name of course, but it will be your money. Will that do?"

It wasn't ideal - he could tell that from Greg's expression - but there wasn't much choice. Slaves didn't have the capability to operate their own financial affairs - they weren't supposed to _have_ any.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Greg said. The formal politeness towards him sounded odd now. Greg had been much more casual when talking to him lately. Wilson figured that meant he was pissed - not at him, but at the whole situation. Well, he had a perfect right to be. 

"I'm sorry, Greg. It's the best we can do. And do me a favour and don't sign up for anything actually _illegal_." He searched around for a change of subject. "How did the laundry go?"

"I managed to get to the laundry room and back by myself." Greg said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. Yes, he was pissed.

A knock on the door interrupted them. 

"That was quick," Wilson said, going over to the door to answer it. It wasn't the pizza delivery man, but rather the Condo Board president. "Oh, Mike, come in." He stepped back and the man entered the apartment.

Mike Venters seemed like a harmless enough man but he ruled the Condo Board with an iron fist. Wilson had been on the receiving end of reprimands from the Board a couple of times - once when he'd tried to smuggle a cat into his apartment, and once when he'd come home late after a friend's bachelor party after unfortunately losing his pants somewhere in the evening. 

When Mike paid a visit in person it could only mean trouble.

"I won't keep you long, Doctor Wilson. I have received a complaint today and I just want to clear it up with you."

"Oh?"

MIke glanced towards the living room where Greg could be seen. He'd put the lid down on the computer and was just sitting there, his eyes on them.

"I understand you have a slave?"

"Yes. Greg." Wilson said shortly. Greg had been here for months now - as far as he knew having a slave wasn't against the rules of the Condo.

"Do you know he was using the laundry room today?"

"Yes, I asked him to do the laundry. He was there with my permission." Wilson glanced apologetically at Greg. 

"The laundry room is for the use of residents only."

"Greg lives here."

"Legally he is not a resident. He can't be in the common areas without your direct supervision."

"That's ridiculous!"

Mike shrugged. "You may think so, the other residents do not. They don't want to be doing their laundry and see a slave lurking around."

"He wasn't lurking, he was doing laundry!"

"Nevertheless, it isn't permitted."

"Strangely enough nobody complained when he saved Nora's son's life. I'll be taking this to the Board meeting." The last thing Wilson wanted to do was get involved in the petty politics of the Condo Board but he couldn't let them do this. 

"That is your right of course, but I think you'll find you won't have the support of the other residents. I've had complaints before this about you having a slave here. That isn't against the rules - although we may look into changing that - but we don't have to allow the slave to have free run of the building. He may use the laundry room only when you are with him."

When the door had closed behind the man Wilson turned to Greg.

"Greg, I'm sorry. I'll fight this - they can't make arbitrary rules up like that. What happened anyway? Did someone see you there?"

"A woman came in to empty one of the machines while I was there. She didn't seem pleased to see me."

"Okay, well the meeting is at the end of the month. You'd better stay out of the laundry until then, but I'll see what I can do."

"Wilson, it doesn't matter. It's just laundry," Greg said. He stood up and moved to the kitchen. "I'll get some plates and drinks."

Wilson sighed. He knew that it hadn't been _just laundry_ to Greg - it had been the opportunity to get out and do something on his own - however small and trivial that thing was. Like his wanting to earn money - it was a small step of independence. Wilson couldn't blame him for wanting a little of that. 

"We can go for a walk after dinner," he suggested. "If you like."

"I'm tired; I think I'll just go to bed."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, he didn't know what else to say. Obviously Greg was bothered by what had happened, just as obviously he didn't want to talk about it. 

"Okay, fine, Greg." 

He couldn't enjoy the pizza when it came.


	23. Chapter 23

When Wilson asked her out to dinner she immediately suspected an ulterior motive. Since Greg's arrival into his life he'd hurried off every evening to his apartment, and as far as she knew he stayed there. Before then they'd occasionally eaten out of an evening, or gone to the movies, and if neither of them were dating other people - which had become more common than not in later years - they were each other's emergency 'plus one' for social events. A nice comfortable arrangement that had suited them both. 

"What about Greg?" she'd asked, only to receive the polite Wilson version of a scowl.

"I'm not actually married to Greg. I'm sure he'll survive one night without me," he'd said shortly and she'd tabled the matter until now.

Watching him push his meal around his plate, and consume more wine than food, she decided it was time to broach the subject.

"So, how is Greg? It must be difficult for him - coming to terms with all those memories in one hit." She couldn't really imagine how that would be. Her own life held enough disappointments and regrets that she wouldn't want all that landing in her mind at one time. Gregory House's life had been far more turbulent than hers. She had to admit she was a little curious too - she assumed his returning memories included their one night stand at med school. She'd long since put that particular disappointment behind her but like all her youthful crushes she'd never forgotten. 

Wilson pushed aside his half eaten dinner. It wasn't as good as the food Greg prepared anyway. Not that he'd been doing so much of that lately. Greg had thrown himself into his online money making efforts with enthusiasm. Often Wilson came home from work only to find Greg still hunched over his laptop, pulling together some college essay or other.

"They pay more if it's a rush job," he'd explained. "I take all the last minute requests the others won't touch. I've got six pages on the influence of the internet on feminist thinking due by eight tonight."

Wilson had raised an eyebrow - Greg had only been on the internet himself for a matter of months, and he suspected that whatever he knew of feminist thinking, if anything, was radically out of date.

"It doesn't matter what the topic is, all you have to do is know how to research, and I can do that," Greg had explained. "That, and use lots of block quotes to take up space. It doesn't have to be great; it just has to be something they can turn in."

"It seems a little unethical."

"I'm a slave, Wilson. If some rich kid wants to cheat their way through college to get the brass ring I'm not going to lose any sleep over it. But you'll need to get your own dinner tonight."

Wilson certainly wasn't going to complain to Cuddy that Greg wasn't cooking his dinner for him regularly, or that the apartment was no longer sparkling clean. Those things had been nice, but it wasn't like Greg _had_ to do them. Wilson had never wanted to treat him like a slave - no matter what the paperwork said. Still, the changes were a little worrying. 

"What was Greg like, when you knew him?" It wasn't what he had intended to say, but Cuddy was a link to Greg's past. Greg didn't discuss it with him, not at all. Whether he talked to Nolan about it he didn't know. He had the privilege of driving Greg to his therapy once a week, and paying, but he was firmly shut out of all the sessions. 

Cuddy thought about the impossibly arrogant young man she'd met in the campus bookstore. He'd taken one look at her syllabus and offered a few pithy sentences summing up her character. She'd taken an instant dislike to him, but also had felt a strong pull of attraction. When they'd encountered each other a little later in an endocrinology class one thing had led to another and she'd found herself in bed with him. Of course, in what was the story of her life, he'd disappeared by the next morning. That had been the last time she'd seen him.

"I told you before, he was an arrogant ass. An arrogant _cheating_ ass. Even before he got kicked out of school it was widely known that he'd write papers for anyone who'd pay - and cheat on his own." She smiled fondly. "He did have a certain something though. There was something dangerous about him, something compelling. And he rode a bike. Couple that with the fact that he was a genius and well, he didn't lack for attention."

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him. "Are you having problems with him since he's regained his memories?" 

"Not really. Not _problems_ as such, but he's... different."

"Different?"

He took another sip of wine, this really was difficult. How could he explain this to Cuddy without seeming like a complaining slave owner?

"Before he went to Mayfield he was very... compliant. He cleaned the apartment, and studied hard, and he always had dinner prepared when I got home." When he saw Cuddy's eyebrow raising he hurried on, "I didn't ask him to do any of those things of course, he just did them - and he seemed pleased to do them. Now he seems distracted. He's working on ways to earn his own money online, and he doesn't always get the cleaning, or dinner, done. I don't think he's studying as much - he was working through some medical exam practise reviews before but he doesn't seem to have made much progress on them since Mayfield."

Cuddy shrugged. "Well, I hate to point this out, Wilson, but you're the boss - in every sense of the word. If he needs a little more direction then you have to give it to him. House in college was a lazy ass - enormous potential but unless something caught his attention he'd sit around playing his guitar all day. Sounds like you've let him slack off. He's testing you."

"So, I'm supposed to... what? Punish him?" His mind flitted uneasily to the crop and paddles he'd seen in his Slave Ownership 101 course. He shook his head firmly, clearing the image. Even if Greg had done anything to warrant that - which he hadn't - Wilson would never use physical discipline on him. Or any other form of discipline. He wanted to help Greg, not abuse him.

"I'm not saying you should take a whip to him, but he's used to discipline, and being told what to do. You're probably confusing the hell out of him with this softly, softly, approach." 

"Well, he'll have to be confused then. I've told him that I won't treat him as a slave and I meant it." He looked around for the waiter. He needed to get back home. Greg would be waiting for him.

* * *

When he opened the door he was immediately hit by the smell of Thai food. Dumping his keys and wallet on the stand by the door he went through to the living room where he found the source.

Greg was sitting on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, watching one of the trashy reality shows he favoured. Open on the coffee table were a variety of containers from a take-out place. There was an open beer can by his feet.

"You ordered Thai?" Wilson asked. He'd told Greg he'd be out for dinner, expecting Greg to make something for himself.

"Didn't feel like cooking," Greg answered without taking his eyes off the television. He grabbed his beer and took a swig. 

"How did you pay for it?"

Greg nodded his head towards his laptop, sitting abandoned on the table. "Paypal."

Ah. Once Greg had discovered that he could receive payment directly through paypal for some of his online activities he'd opened an account. Wilson had opened a separate bank account in his own name so that the funds could be withdrawn if needed but Greg was able to spend the funds in the PayPal account himself. Up until now he hadn't spent any of his earnings as far as Wilson knew. 

"Had to borrow some quarters to tip the delivery guy though," Greg said - indicating the jar where Wilson kept change. "He didn't look very impressed."

"He didn't say anything about you being a..." Wilson had visions of the delivery guy ringing the police and reporting that there was an unattended slave in his apartment, ordering food off the internet. 

"Wore a scarf," Greg said shortly and Wilson followed his eyes to see one of his winter scarves lying discarded on the floor. 

He picked it up and carefully folded it. Greg knew as well as he did that it was illegal for any slave to cover up their collar. 

"Greg..."

Greg finally looked at him properly. His expression held no regret for his actions. "He didn't suspect anything. Don't worry - you won't be getting any more complaints about your slave."

"I'm not worried about complaints - I'm worried about _you_. If you wanted to order in something for dinner I could have organised it for you."

Greg shrugged. "Well, you didn't have to. I can do things like that for myself now."

Wilson was glad of that, he really was, but he was also worried, both by Greg's changing attitude, and by what could happen if he overstepped his mark. The 'laundry incident' had shown that was all too easy to do. 

"Did you have a good dinner?" Greg asked before Wilson could say anything else. Greg was staring at the television again but he seemed oddly tense. "With Doctor Cuddy?"

"Yes, thanks," Wilson said cautiously. He'd told Greg where he was going tonight - it wasn't a secret. Greg had made no comment.

"Rekindling the old romance?" Greg asked. Wilson was startled for a moment before he remembered that he'd mentioned that he used to go out with Cuddy, before he found out that Greg had history with her. He felt momentarily guilty, but that was ridiculous - he hadn't even known Greg back then - let alone known about his past with Cuddy, as brief as it was. He hadn't stolen Greg's girlfriend. 

"No, Cuddy is just a friend, and my boss. We have dinner sometimes." Not since Greg had come to live with him, it was true. "I can invite her for dinner again here, now that you have your memories back?" He made it a question. He'd planned to anyway, at some stage. Cuddy was very much a part of his plan to have Greg resume his medical career. She'd most likely be the only hospital administrator who'd take a chance on a slave, or even an ex-slave, if Greg had to wait that long. 

"No!" Greg's vehemence surprised him. He'd even turned his gaze away from the TV to glare at Wilson. "I don't want to see her."

Wilson held up his hands, as if in surrender. "Okay, okay, you don't have to. Just thought you might want to catch up with her." 

"Yeah, I can tell her about prison and how much fun being a slave is. It will be like old times. I bet she wishes she had my career path, instead of wasting her time becoming Dean of Medicine at a teaching hospital." He looked back at the TV. One hand was working at his thigh, massaging the scar there through the material of his jeans.

Wilson decided it might just be better to beat a strategic retreat. Obviously Greg was in a bit of a mood. It wasn't unusual for him these days. Nolan had warned him that things would change now that Greg had access to his memories again, and that the path wouldn't be easy. Unfortunately he hadn't given Wilson any guidance on how to deal with this.

"Well, okay, I’m going to bed," he said. "Goodnight, Greg."

There was silence and Wilson thought that Greg wasn't going to answer him. Then, as he turned away, he heard Greg's soft response. "Goodnight, Wilson."

He realised as he left the room that it was the first night that he'd gone to bed before Greg. Greg had always gone to bed when he did, or earlier. As a slave he was used to early bedtimes after a hard day’s work and waking up at the crack of dawn or before. 

Now he left Greg in the living room by himself, the drama on the television screen playing out in front of him. He lay awake until eventually he heard Greg make his way to his own room some time after midnight.


	24. Chapter 24

The apartment was quiet when he woke up. As he glanced at the clock he realised that Wilson would have left for work over an hour ago. He felt a twinge of guilt. He'd been getting up later and later, but had always at least been up when Wilson left. Last night however he'd worked long into the night on one of the papers he had due, and then found it difficult to get to sleep. It had been the early hours of the morning before he'd finally managed it.

He rolled over and out of bed, one hand clutching at his thigh. The pain that had been so much improved since coming had become worse over the last couple of weeks. He sat on the edge of the bed massaging the area for a few minutes and then limped to the bathroom - a hot shower might help.

The pain was still sharp after the shower and his first cup of coffee. Wilson had left his meds out for him but they weren't making much of an impression. He spent a few minutes half-heartedly cleaning the kitchen but his mind was dwelling on the pain and he found himself going along the hallway to Wilson's bedroom and through into his bathroom.

He knew Wilson kept the breakthrough pain meds in here. The ones that he wasn't supposed to be giving a slave without the slave being in hospital. They were in an unmarked bottle.

He opened the top and looked inside; there were a good number of pills there. He'd never taken them without Wilson giving them to him before, but he knew Wilson wouldn't begrudge him. The pain was red hot now and all he could think about.

He quickly downed a couple of the pills and replaced the bottle. He left the bathroom as he found it and went out to the kitchen to grab another cup of coffee and sit down for a while.

He was quickly absorbed in his laptop, catching up on emails which had arrived overnight. Gradually the pills did their work, and the pain receded to a more manageable level. He sighed in relief and looked around.

The apartment was in severe need of a good cleaning. Since going to Mayfield and regaining his memories he'd spent less and less time on housework. After all Wilson had kept emphasizing that he didn't regard Greg as a slave. He didn't have to do anything he didn't want to - not anymore. He'd spent the last twenty years living a very rigid existence, with every minute regimented and supervised. Even 'free time' had been parcelled into small segments of minutes, and heavily constricted. Now the only set points in his life were the weekly visits to Doctor Nolan.

The sessions were difficult for him. Nolan insisted that they had to discuss all aspects of Greg's life, from his childhood through to his time in prison and the circumstances that put him there, and of course his slavery. Greg didn't want to think about those years. He felt humiliated by what he had become. As a child, and a young man he'd been rebellious, hating authority and escaping it whenever he could. As a slave he'd been meekly compliant, obeying without even the smallest of protests. He'd forgotten everything he had ever been. He hated what they'd done to him.

Having to talk about that time with Nolan was acutely painful. Those twenty years - especially the last few after the infarction that had crippled him and left him in pain - were a time Greg would rather forget. He did not want to relive them, and what they had done to him.

Wilson had saved him - quite literally. He'd brought him here, given him the cane that made his life so much easier, made sure he had food to eat, books to read, and the most important gift of all - time and freedom to be himself. Then he'd made it possible for him to regain his memories. All of that and he'd asked for nothing in return. Greg still didn't know why he'd done it. Greg had been a stranger to him, not just a stranger but a slave. The lowest member of society, worse even than the criminals locked in jail.

Wilson had said that he would never sell Greg, and never treat him as a slave. But Greg knew he couldn't be freed for another five years. At any time Wilson might become tired of living with him - of always having Greg in his apartment. He'd begun going to work earlier and coming home later, in the last few weeks. He was meeting up with Doctor Cuddy more frequently at night, leaving Greg alone. And all that had been happening since he'd stopped being the meek, dutiful slave he had been and started becoming more independent.

Maybe if he went back to being that slave things would go back to the way they had been. He couldn't afford to alienate Wilson. Sure, he'd spent his first twenty or so years of life pissing people off, but things were different now. It Wilson got annoyed at him he wouldn't just give him an ice bath, or suspend him from school - he could sell him. And one thing Greg knew for sure - he couldn't go back to being owned by somewhere like Rent-A-Slave - not now.

He went into the kitchen and began pulling out his cleaning implements. He'd give the apartment a thorough cleaning for when Wilson came home. And he'd make sure he made dinner today, one of Wilson's favourites.

Several hours later he was done and he looked around, satisfied. The apartment was spotless again.

His leg was hurting again after all the activity so he went through to Wilson's bathroom and helped himself to another couple of the pills.

Then he spotted the bag of dirty laundry in one corner of Wilson's bedroom.

 

Wilson was in the middle of a biopsy in the operating room when he was interrupted by a nurse, holding a mask over her face.

"Doctor Wilson, there's a call for you. It's the police."

He looked down at his patient on the table, he'd only just started the procedure. He couldn't stop now.

"Whatever it is it will have to wait," he said shortly.

"It's your slave, Doctor. They have him in custody and want to take him back to their station. They said they need to talk to you before they do."

Wilson was conscious of all the eyes in the operating room on him. He knew that the fact that he owned a slave was a hot item on the hospital's gossip circuit. It wasn't something he was ashamed of - he'd even brought Greg into the hospital regularly for his physical therapy appointments - but neither did he want his personal business broadcast all over the OR.

"Just get their names and numbers and I'll call them when I finish here. I can't leave." Wilson said. He was worried about Greg, what the hell had he gotten himself into? Why had he even left the apartment? Whatever it was it would have to wait.

The nurse nodded and left, only to return a couple of minutes later.

"I told them you were busy in surgery and couldn't come. They just wanted to know if his collar is set to shock him if he leaves the building. They asked me to find out."

Everybody was staring at him and Wilson felt himself flush.

He shook his head. "No, it's not. He'll be fine. Can you find out where they are taking him?"

The nurse looked disapproving. Running messages, especially messages about a slave, was not her job. But she nodded and went out. Wilson sighed and went back to the biopsy.

 

Wilson was lectured at the police station by the sergeant on duty.

"The slave's collar should really be set to restrict his movements. A small shock won't hurt him but it will keep him where he should be. Can't have them wandering all over the place. If it had been set properly he wouldn't have been able to go to the laundry - or any other place he shouldn't be."

"The collar sends an alarm to my phone if he leaves the building," Wilson said. "And he's easily trackable by the GPS chip in it. There's no need for anything else." He was impatient to see Greg and check he was okay. He was also furious at Greg. He knew better than this. Wilson had told him not to go down to the laundry again after that first time.

"I think your neighbours would disagree. They're the ones who called when he decided to wander down to the laundry."

"My slave should be able to do my laundry without being arrested." He hated referring to Greg as his slave, but that was what the sergeant would expect. "The neighbours shouldn't have called you in."

The sergeant nodded. "The by-laws of a private building are none of our concern but we have to intervene if any member of the public feels threatened by a slave. Your one looked docile enough when we got there. We would have just returned him to you but you weren't available."

"I was operating. I'm a doctor. I came as soon as I could."

"Well, there's a charge of $500 for the pickup and detention. Once you pay that you can have him back."

Owning a slave was turning into an expensive business. "I didn't ask for him to be detained," he pointed out. "He was perfectly okay where he was."

The sergeant shrugged. "That's the law. Standard fee if we have to come out and pick up a loose slave. Of course you could leave him here and contest it in court in fourteen days time. If you lose the case you'll be charged $200 a day for his accommodation in that period."

Wilson paid the requested $500.

 

"What the hell were you thinking, Greg?" Wilson asked, his voice tinged with irritation, as he got into the driver's seat of the car. Not only had he had to pay the fine, but there had been paperwork to be filled out before Greg had been brought out to him. Greg had been limping heavily without his cane but didn't seem harmed otherwise. His cane had been returned to him at the front desk. "You know you can't go to the laundry by yourself. I had to leave work early to come and get you."

"I was thinking I'd get our clothes clean. You didn't get it done on the weekend."

"Because I was driving you to therapy on Saturday and I had to go into the hospital on Sunday!"

Greg shrugged and slouched in his seat. Wilson was put in mind of a sullen teenager.

"Nobody was in the laundry room when I went there. I thought it would be okay."

Wilson started the car and pulled away from the kerb. "Well, it wasn't."

Greg shrugged again and stared out of the window.

"Is this the sort of thing you used to do? Just ignore rules because you want to?"

"Yep. Didn't you know - I was a bit of an ass when I was free. They don't put you in prison for being a girl scout."

"I don't know what's got into you lately. Is the therapy upsetting you? You don't have to go." Wilson wouldn't put it past Nolan to encourage Greg to rebel like this - he'd made his dim view of Wilson very clear.

"You want me to stop going, Master ?"

Wilson held onto his temper. "No, I don't want you to stop going, unless you want to. I do want you to talk to me and tell me what is going on. You didn't used to be like this."

"You want your pathetic slave back."

"You were never pathetic !"

"I was too scared to move without you saying it was okay. All I did was clean the apartment, and cook, and hang on your every word. That's what you want. You want a good little slave who'll say 'yes,sir','no,sir' all the time."

Wilson pulled into his parking spot. He felt totally drained. He didn't want to fight with Greg like this. He didn't want to have to counter his ridiculous accusations. His work was hard enough; he didn't need conflict at home. Dammit, he'd done everything he could for Greg to make his life better - at a cost to his own life, and this was his thanks.

He got out of the car without saying anything else and waited. Eventually the other door opened and Greg got out.

They went back to the apartment in silence. In the elevator Greg stood apart from him, staring at the wall. Wilson noticed that his right hand was shaking, the cane trembling in his grasp.

Once they were inside Greg immediately stomped off towards his bedroom while Wilson headed for the kitchen. He heard Greg's bedroom door slam shut.

In the kitchen he stopped dead and stared. Greg had cleaned. Every surface was sparkling, like it used to be. There was even something that smelled delicious cooking in the slow cooker on the counter. It must have taken Greg hours to do everything. He'd done all this and then for some bizarre reason he'd then decided to do the laundry despite knowing that he couldn't. Wilson shook his head - he didn't understand it. He needed to talk to Nolan. He needed some help with this; he was out of his depth.


	25. Chapter 25

Wilson rang Nolan from the hospital. He didn't want Greg to know he was contacting his therapist, or to overhear their conversation.

Nolan wasn't very forthcoming.

"I'm sure you realise that patient confidentiality prevents me from talking about this with you, Doctor Wilson."

"Greg gave you permission to talk to me," Wilson pointed out.

"I believe that was permission to talk to you at Mayfield, about what happened to him in Mayfield. He hasn't given me any further permission."

"I don't want you to betray any confidences. I just need some advice on how to deal with this." Wilson said, gripping the phone tighter. He'd already explained what had happened. Nolan had to understand that if Wilson couldn't help Greg deal with this he was going to end up getting himself in some serious trouble. "He just seems so angry all the time. I can't talk to him anymore."

"Greg has a lot to be angry about, Doctor Wilson." Wilson could picture the man leaning back in his chair, that infuriatingly calm expression on his face.

"I know that. But after everything I've done for him..."

"You think he should be properly grateful and appreciative. You don't think he should be angry at you."

"I've done nothing to hurt him." Quite the opposite, he'd done everything he could to help Greg. He didn't need a lot of thanks - but he didn't need the attitude Greg was giving him either.

"Would Greg let out his anger at anyone else?" Nolan asked. "The fact that he feels safe to do so with you should tell you something."

"Forgive me if I don't feel flattered."

"Greg is growing beyond his slavery, Doctor Wilson. Wasn't that what you wanted?"

After he had terminated the call Wilson looked at the envelope on his desk. It had come that morning. It was an official missive from the State of New Jersey. A letter with two short paragraphs - denying his request to re-open Greg's murder conviction. Lucas had warned him that this was the most likely outcome. Nobody was interested in twenty year old convictions for crimes that happened in prison, or the fate of a slave. 

He glanced at his watch. It was time for the Board Meeting. He was well prepared - Lucas had helped with that as well. Even if he was failing Greg he could still do this, he could still achieve something. 

He gathered up his papers and the necessary equipment and left his office to go to the meeting.

* * *

_Greg didn't know where they were going. Wilson had just told him to get in the car and was now driving with a fixed expression on his face. He hadn't looked at Greg, or talked to him, since they started out. It was only when they drove past a large grey warehouse with concrete surrounds that he realised where they were. He'd only seen it from the outside once but he knew._

_Wilson turned the car into a side entrance, and around the back of the building where the slaves were loaded into trucks every morning to go to work. Dozens of slaves stood there silently, each dressed in the familiar coverall._

_"No," Greg said, his voice faint, his stomach lurching with anxiety. "No. You promised, you said that you wouldn't..."_

_Wilson killed the engine and turned to him._

_"It wasn't working. I gave you a chance and you blew it. You're too much trouble. Get out."_

_"No. Please. I'll be good. I promise." He begged. He couldn't go back._

_The door of the car was opened from the outside and a supervisor stood there, a crop in his hand._

_"Get out, slave."_

_Greg got out, his mind and body numb. He looked around at the blank faces of the slaves watching them. The supervisor sneered at him and tapped the crop in the palm of his hand._

_Wilson got out of the car and Greg thought for one moment that he had changed his mind. That he was only doing this to scare Greg into compliance._

_Instead Wilson handed over the collar control and looked at the supervisor, pointing at Greg._

_"I need the clothes back. You can keep his collar."_

_The supervisor nodded. "Take the clothes off, slave. Quickly."_

_Greg stared at him, his hands going protectively to his clothes. Wilson had said that they were his - that he_ owned _them. The supervisor pressed the button on the collar control and Greg jerked as the shock raced through his body. The first one he'd felt in months. Once he had control of his body again he fumbled with his buttons, taking off one garment at a time and handing it to the supervisor. His hands hesitated at his boxers but the quick blow he received from the crop made him strip them off too._

_He stood naked in front of everyone, holding only his cane. Goosebumps formed on his flesh as a cold wind blew across the open courtyard._

_Wilson put his hand out. "The cane, Greg."_

_His fingers tightened around it reflexively but at a warning look from the supervisor he slowly handed it over._

_Wilson took it and nodded. "Goodbye, Greg. I'm sorry it didn't work out."_

_Then he got back into the car without a backwards glance and drove off. Wilson was gone._

_The supervisor laughed as he shivered. "You didn't think he was going to keep you, did you? A crippled slave? What would he want with you?"_

_Greg looked down. His body was covered in the Rent-A-Slave coverall._

_He fell into line besides a truck with the other slaves._

Greg woke up with a gasp, the dream leaving him momentarily disoriented. Instead of the lines of slaves he saw the quiet comfort of his bedroom. The luxury of it had become commonplace over the months he had lived here but now he saw it again in a new light. This was what he stood to lose. This was what he had risked the day before.

He closed his eyes, trying to go back to sleep, but the dream pressed in on him. Giving up he got up and made his way out to the living area, hoping to see Wilson before he left for the hospital. The apartment was quiet and Wilson's case and jacket were missing. He'd gone in early again.

He had a long shower, with the temperature turned up as high as he could stand it. The thud of the water against his body helped drive out the remnants of the dream. That wasn't going to happen. Wilson would never do that to him. In any case the dream made no sense. If Wilson sold him it wouldn't be back to Slave-R-Us - they were glad to get rid of him in the first place. There was no way they would want their crippled slave back. He'd go back to the State Slave barracks and be onsold from there, if anyone would take him. He'd be a hard sell. Probably he'd serve the rest of his sentence there, spending twelve hours a day cleaning floors. 

Once he was dressed he went over to his bedroom window to look out at what little he could see of the outside world. The heavy bars crossing the window brought back his memories of prison. Getting his memories back had been a two edged sword to say the least. There were some memories that he could have cheerfully lost forever. Those months in prison were many of them.

As well as the bars there was also a lock on the door. Greg had looked into slave owning regulations on the internet and discovered that both were mandated by the state. They provided a place he could be locked into if necessary. Like a prison. A prison within a prison.

Wilson would have had to have attended the 'Slave Owning 101 course' - it was required for all new slave owners. Greg had obtained the curriculum online. He suspected nothing in it had prepared Wilson for his experience of actually owning a slave. What Wilson had done, and not done, with his slave would be far beyond the instructor's experience. You just didn't treat slaves like Wilson had. You especially didn't let them get back their memories if they had lost them. 

He leaned his forehead against the cold bars. Yesterday had been terrifying. He'd been alone in the laundry room when the police had come in. He hadn't even seen any of Wilson's neighbours before the police arrived. 

He'd knelt as soon as he saw them. Had bowed his head like a meek compliant slave. It hadn't even really been an act. The old instincts had kicked in again at the sight of Authority. They'd asked him a few sharp questions. Did his owner know he was here? Was his owner home? Greg had replied honestly and they'd left him kneeling there while they tried to contact Wilson. Then, like a lost dog, they'd taken him with them - handcuffed and in the back of a van. 

At the station he had been searched down to the skin and the details from his collar written down, and then he'd been placed in a small, bare, windowless cell, until his owner could come and collect him. 

The hours of waiting had been agonizing. Seeing Wilson finally appear had been such a relief that he'd almost dropped to his knees in front of him and begged his forgiveness.

He needed to decide whether he was going to let his fear of losing this new life dictate everything he did. It would be easy - so easy - to slip back into the quiet slave persona. He'd keep the apartment spotless, and make dinner, and study medicine like Wilson wanted. In the evening, once the weather was warmer again, Wilson would take him for a walk around the block. 

He'd had good times with Wilson before getting back his memories, even if he'd never been able to forget that he was the slave and Wilson was the Master. Things could be good again, or at least tolerable, if only he could forget who he had once been, and everything he had lost. 

He stayed at the window, staring out of the bars for a long time.

* * *

Wilson sat at his place at the oval conference table in the boardroom. Cuddy was opposite him. He met her eyes and she nodded. It was time.

He cleared his throat and others quieted, their eyes turned towards him. 

"I had a report prepared for this meeting. There was a cost breakdown, budget projections, and strategies to maximise the marketing potential of going slave free. I had a list of donors who are prepared to step up their contributions, or make new ones, and the details of grants that would be available to us if we took that step." Wilson indicated an impressive looking blue folder in front of him.

"I haven't made copies of it and given it to you all because it's not important. Those are just numbers, the financial side of making a decision that should be made on moral grounds. Today I want to show you why we should make this decision."

He stood up and moved the television on its trolley towards the table, where they could all see it.  
"These are the slaves that work here, and have done for the past eight months. This is their life." He pressed play on the DVD.

The screen showed the loading dock of the hospital as the first light of dawn crept over it. Into the frame came a Rent-A-Slave truck, the logo bright on its side. It pulled up and two uniformed men jumped down from the cabin. Each carried a crop. They opened the back door of the vehicle and a procession of slaves jumped down. Each was wearing a coverall with the name of the company on it. Each slave, man or woman alike, had their head shaved into an efficient buzz cut. They moved quickly, wary eyes on the two men watching them. The last slave out of the truck received a slash of the crop on their arm. They flinched away from the blow and hurried after the others. 

Lucas had done good work, setting up his spy cameras around the hospital. They caught the grind of the slaves’ workday, the menace of the supervisors as they stood over them. The slaves did not talk to each other, or to their supervisors, except for quick responses to orders. They did not smile, or laugh. Their faces were blank, all hope gone from them. More than once the cameras caught a supervisor delivering a blow of the crop to the slaves in their charge. 

When their long day was finished the slaves were again shown in the loading dock, this time being herded back into the windowless truck. Their heads were down, and exhaustion showed in every movement. Once they were loaded in the door slammed shut behind them. 

Wilson had seen the video footage several times preparing for this board meeting and he still found it disturbing, more so when he thought of Greg being in that position only a few months ago. As he looked around the table he saw that several of the people sitting there seemed moved by what they were seeing. Most of them had only ever caught glimpses of the slaves, as they scuttled about their work. A lot of the work was done out of sight of the busy hospital. This brought the reality home. 

The video finished and there was silence in the room. Wilson reached into his pocket and pulled out a collar and threw it on the table.

"This is a replica of the collars worn by those slaves. It has a built in shock mechanism. The company that owns them routinely uses a low level shock to tell the slaves it's time to return to the truck. We tried to get footage of it being used but the slaves are so used to being shocked that they barely react now. If any slave is 'non-compliant' or if they stray from their assigned areas a stronger shock is used." He showed them the control to the collar. "Does anyone want to try it and see what it feels like?" He'd tried it on himself, but he didn't think anyone would volunteer. Nobody did.

"This is what we are doing when we allow the use of slaves here. This is what we are. We can do better than this."

He sat down to complete silence from his fellow board members. 

Cuddy cleared her throat. "I call for a vote on Doctor Wilson's proposal for this hospital to cease using all slaves. All in favour?"

Brown immediately raised his hand, as did Wilson. Cuddy raised hers and the rest of the Board quickly fell in behind her, with Henderson being the only hold-out.

"Motion carried," Cuddy said calmly and it was done.

* * *

"Congratulations," Cuddy said, toasting him with her coffee. They were in her office, having a late lunch after the meeting. "Garcia from Paediatrics was crying during the video. You must be pleased."

"We should have done it long ago." He _was_ pleased, but it was little enough, and did nothing to help resolve his own problems with Greg. He stared at the replica collar which he'd dropped on Cuddy's desk. The collar represented the whole slavery culture - one that he had grown to hate. 

Cuddy shrugged. "Nobody cared enough. Nor did you before you bought Greg."

"I was blind to what I was seeing. There's so much more I could have told them about what happens to slaves. Greg's let a few things slip although he doesn't like to talk about it."

"I'm surprised you didn't parade him in there as well - as a living example." That slavery could happen even to a doctor. 

Wilson frowned at her. "I wouldn't do that to him." Lucas had suggested as much and he'd quickly shot him down. 

Cuddy held up her hands. "Just joking, James. I'm glad you didn't. Greg deserves more dignity than that." She eyed Wilson, he didn't look happy about his triumph; instead he looked preoccupied, and worried. He'd come into the hospital early for the last several days and had stayed later than he had for a long time. Classic Wilson avoidance tactics - employed with all his past wives, and even with her during their short relationship. Wilson was avoiding being at home, which had to mean that he was still having trouble with Greg.

She was debating with herself whether she wanted to get involved, and really she didn't but James was her friend, when there was an alert tone from his phone. He pulled it out and stared at the screen, his eyes going wide. 

"What is it?"

"It's Greg. This app tracks his collar. He's exited the apartment, and left the building." He looked down at the screen again. There was no mistaking; Greg was walking down the street, away from the apartment. Fear gripped him - anything could happen to him out there.

"He's escaping?" Cuddy was incredulous. Where did he think he could _go_?

"No..." But if he wasn't, what was he doing? Just going for a walk? A trip down a few floors to do laundry had ended up with him being taken into police custody. This was promising complete disaster. 

"I've got to go," he said, holding the phone tightly, his eyes never leaving the screen. "I've got to get him back."

He didn't wait for Cuddy's response as he hurried towards his car, all the while watching Greg's slow progress on the screen. 

He just hoped he wouldn't be too late.


	26. Chapter 26

Wilson cursed as he sat in traffic. Beside him his phone displayed the tracking app. A red border ran around the outside of the screen to alert him to the fact that Greg had left the boundaries Wilson had set for him. As if Wilson didn't know that. The app had also helpfully asked if Wilson would like to be connected to the authorities for help recapturing his straying slave. No, Wilson didn't. He was, in fact, terrified of those authorities being called on Greg.

Nobody should notice, he thought, it's not like you didn't see an occasional slave wandering the streets. Everybody assumes they are on an errand for their owner. As long as Greg didn't do anything stupid to bring attention to himself he should be fine until Wilson could catch up to him and take him back home. 

Unfortunately Greg doing something stupid at this point seemed more likely than not.

He couldn't imagine why Greg had done this. True, Wilson had never specifically forbidden him from leaving the apartment building, but Greg knew as well as Wilson that it wasn't safe for him to do so. He'd never shown any inclination to wander off before. Even yesterday he'd only gone to the laundry room, and look how that had turned out. 

Of course if the police did pick him up and contact Wilson he could always lie and say Greg was on errand for him. He'd probably get another lecture, and another fine, from that sergeant but nothing disastrous would happen. He hoped. He realised that he really didn't know everything he should about the legal provisions that applied to slaves. After today he'd make sure he was an expert.

He looked down at the app. Greg was still moving. He inched up to the car in front of him and then stopped again. They were going nowhere fast, there had to have been an accident up ahead. Every minute he lost here Greg was getting further away from him.

An eternity later he pulled up outside his apartment building and consulted the app. The little dot that represented Greg was still moving but the rate of progress had slowed. Greg had been walking for over half an hour now, he had to be getting tired. Even with the cane Wilson knew he still found it tiring to walk for too long, not to mention painful. 

He set the app to give him driving instructions and pulled back out into the road. Several blocks later he spotted his quarry. Greg was moving slowly now, his weight hunched over his cane. He was wearing a long coat; the one Wilson had bought for him only a couple of weeks ago as the weather had started to turn cold. The collar of the coat was up, and Wilson could also detect a scarf. Greg was hiding his collar from casual sight. He wasn't carrying a bag which Wilson would have expected if Greg was making a genuine attempt to flee. Greg had to know that Wilson could easily trace him. Yet here he was, stubbornly walking away, head down in some futile attempt to... Wilson didn't know what exactly, prove a point maybe?

He drove past, slowing the car down deliberately to catch Greg's attention. Greg glanced up as the car passed him and for a moment their eyes met and then Greg abruptly changed direction, heading for a park on the corner. Wilson cursed and accelerated past him, searching for a place to park the car. 

By the time he had parked up the dot on the screen had covered half of the park, heading for the other side. This was getting ridiculous. It was cold out; he didn't want to chase Greg on foot across half of Princeton. 

His hand crept to the pocket of his jacket, where the collar control was. He took it out and stared at it. A little press of a button and Greg would feel a mild shock that might stop him - or at least make him reconsider what he was doing. It would be for his own good. It would give Wilson a chance to catch up to him. His finger lightly brushed the control.

He had a flash of memory, Greg on the ground after he'd fallen down a flight of stairs at PPTH. Wilson had been touching him when Greg's 'recall signal' had been sent to his collar. He'd felt that shock. Someone had casually pressed a button like the one Wilson had in his hand and shocked him, just to let him know it was time to go back to the truck. Greg was held captive by the collar around his neck, and he had never been allowed to forget it by those bastards. Wilson had promised never to use the collar against Greg and he wasn't about to break that promise.

He dropped the control back in his pocket, horrified at what he had almost done. His anger at Greg fled. This was what Greg had to contend with every day - the knowledge that Wilson could do something like that to him whenever he wanted, and Greg could do nothing about it.

He set out on foot, across the road to the entrance to the park. Greg was barely moving now, still in Wilson's sight. While Wilson watched he made it to a park bench and slumped down on it, his head down. On impulse Wilson stopped at the coffee shop next to the park and picked up two coffees and a bag of donuts. His eyes never left Greg while he was waiting for his order. He wanted to rush straight to him, and drag him back to the car, and safety, but he knew that they needed to talk, and talk seriously. Now that he was within sight of Greg there was less danger. If the police came - well, he was quite entitled to be out with 'his slave'. He could spare a few minutes.

He approached Greg quietly, slipping onto the bench next to him and offering him one of the coffees. 

Greg looked up, startled. He took the offered coffee but stared at it quizzically.

"You were chasing an escaping slave, and you... stopped to pick up coffee?"

"And donuts." Wilson said, offering the bag. 

"You don't watch a lot of cop shows do you?" 

Wilson shrugged. "You weren't escaping, or even trying to. Not really." He took a long sip of his coffee, feeling the warmth go through him. "Besides, it's cold out. We could both use a coffee."

"Why aren't you mad at me? You were annoyed yesterday, and I just went down a couple of floors not across half of Princeton."

"I _was_ mad." Wilson held the coffee between his palms, staring down at it. "I was furious at you for being so reckless. I didn't know what the hell you were thinking, doing this. I had to leave work early and chase you all over town."

"But you're not mad now?"

"Not really. I just want to understand what's happening with you. I have all the advantages here, I know that. I can't imagine what it must be like for you. I just wish you would talk to me about it. I'd like to help."  
Greg shook his head, staring back at the ground. "That's what I don't understand. I don't get why you would do all of this for me. Everything you've done for me, and then I do this, and you still come back for more." He looked up, and Wilson was struck by the pain in his face. "Even when I was free I used to hurt people, all the time. I used to drive them away. But you - you can't be driven off. I don't get it. Why the fuck do you care? Why wouldn't you just sell me? Your life would be a lot easier."

"You're my friend, Greg. People don't sell their friends." He took a long sip of his coffee, letting that sink in. Greg had called him a friend before, but that was defending Wilson to Nolan - Wilson didn't know if he truly believed it - either then or now. He needed to reach Greg somehow, and let him know how important he was to Wilson. 

"I had a brother," he said slowly. He hadn't told anyone about this in years, but Greg needed to know. "His name was Danny. He was a great kid, he was three years younger than me but we had a lot of good times. When he was a teenager he started suffering from schizophrenia. He got into college, but while I was in med school he started getting worse. He would call me at all hours and I'd have to try and talk him down. Then, one day, I just didn't have time to do that - so I didn't take his call. He ran away that night, and I never saw him again."

He stopped and took another sip of coffee. In the couple of years that Danny had been gone it had crossed his mind more than once that maybe he'd gotten into trouble and ended up in prison, maybe even become a slave. Now that he knew Greg he wondered if that would have been better or worse than what actually happened.

"Two years later I got a call from the police. They'd found Danny, sleeping rough on the streets. He was dead from an overdose." Wilson had identified the body. Danny had been almost unrecognisable from the happy kid he'd once been. 

"I'm sorry," Greg said quietly. 

"Yeah, me too." He sighed, Danny's death still weighed heavily on him. Over time he'd come to accept that he wasn't responsible, but it wasn't an experience he ever wanted to repeat. "Greg, I don't want to lose you too. You may make me mad sometimes, but I'm not going to give up on you. I don't want you to give up on me either, however angry I make you. I know this is difficult for you. If you are having problems, or if you're not happy about something, you need to talk to me. If I can help I will. But I can't help you if you won't talk to me."

"You haven't been around as much lately." Greg said, a touch of anger in his voice. "I'm going to be a slave for another five years. That's a long time, Wilson. What happens when you meet the next Mrs Wilson? Or take up with Lisa Cuddy again? Think they're going to want a slave in the household?"

"Well, first of all, I am _not_ getting back together with Cuddy!" He supposed he had been seeing her a bit lately, mostly because he'd been avoiding going home - although he wasn't going to tell Greg that. "She's a friend, and my boss, that's all. When we split up it was mutual. If somebody else comes along," he shrugged. "We'll deal with that. Either way you're not going anywhere."

"You say that now."

"You're just going to have to take my word for it. There's nothing else I can do, unless you want me to sign a contract in blood or something. I mean, we can do that if you want. I haven't got a scalpel with me though." 

The corner of Greg's mouth quirked up and Wilson relaxed slightly. 

"Why did you take off like that? I mean, after yesterday, I thought..."

"That I'd become a dutiful little slave again?" Greg's anger was back. "Too scared to do anything that might upset you? Or your neighbours?" He drained the rest of his coffee, crushing the cup in his hand. "I could do that. It wouldn't be hard. After twenty years of mindless obedience it becomes pretty easy really. I could live in your gilded cage. But I had to see... I had to see what would happen if I didn't."

Wilson thought of how close he'd come to pressing the control button and felt a wave of relief. Whatever bizarre test Greg had been putting him through he'd passed. Otherwise Greg would never have stopped here. 

He looked up suddenly, a police patrol car was stopped at the edge of the park and two uniformed officers were coming across the grass. 

"Take the scarf off, Greg," he said urgently and Greg followed his gaze and did so, also putting down the collar of his shirt. Wilson shoved the scarf into the pocket of his own coat. 

They both sat quietly as the officers approached and then, to Wilson's surprise, they went right past them without acknowledgement, heading for some kids hanging around on bikes near the playground. 

"Come on, let's get out of here," Wilson said, standing up. Greg sat for a moment longer and Wilson was afraid he was going to refuse. He held out his hand and Greg looked at it for a beat before taking it and letting Wilson help him to his feet. 

They walked back to the car as quickly as possible. It was getting dark and the temperature was falling rapidly. Wilson glanced back a time or two but there were no signs of pursuit by the police. 

Once inside the vehicle he put the heater on and once Greg was settled he quickly started the car and pulled away from the kerb. When he looked over at Greg he was staring out of the window.

* * *

Wilson ordered Chinese for their dinner, and they ate it in their usual place, in front of the television. 

"I didn't get a chance to thank you yesterday," Wilson said as he snagged the last shrimp.

"Thank me? For... doing the laundry?" Greg said, his expression incredulous. 

"No. For cleaning the apartment, you did a great job."

"I'm a good slave," Greg said bitterly.

"No. We both live here, I hope we can share cooking and cleaning evenly. I won't treat you as a slave, but I do expect you to do your share," Wilson said evenly. "I'm not your slave, either."

Greg was silent for a moment, then he put down his chopsticks. "You've been very good to me. I do appreciate it, but..."

"You can be honest with me, Greg. I don't like how things have been between us lately."

"You never _asked_ me if I wanted all this. Before you bought me." He waved a hand to indicate the apartment. 

Wilson stared at him blankly. "You _wanted_ to stay at Rent-A-Slave?"

"No, of course not. But you're always saying how you don't treat me as a slave - but it never occurred to you to ask me what I wanted." He looked down and away, one hand fidgeting with his cane. "You decided you wanted to 'rescue' me and you did. Just like today - you came after me and brought me back here."

Wilson considered that. He'd told Greg over and over again that he didn't think of him as a slave, that he didn't see him that way. But fundamentally he still did. Greg still wore a collar, and Wilson still had that control in his pocket. Greg couldn't go anywhere without Wilson knowing about it. 

He'd spent the last few months campaigning to have PPTH become slave-free, and had done everything he could to make Greg's life easier and better. And yet he hadn't freed him, not really. 

He took the control out of his pocket, aware of Greg's eyes on him. He carefully pressed a sequence of buttons, and Greg's eyes widened as he felt the lock on his collar release. 

Wilson put the control down and turned it off. He pulled out his phone and deleted the app from it. Then he reached forward with his hand, not quite touching Greg.

"May I?"

Greg froze in place and then slowly leaned forward. Wilson felt for the clasp of the collar and took it off gently. He dropped it on the coffee table in front of them.

"You never have to wear that again unless you choose to," he said simply. 

Greg stared at it, and then one hand went up to touch the bare skin of his neck. Wilson could see the years of callouses there, Greg would always bear the marks even if he never wore a collar again.

"I can't free you legally. But I won't make you wear a collar. Never again."

"When we go out..." Greg said, his eyes still riveted on the collar.

"It will be your choice, and your risk to take."

"It will be your risk too," Greg pointed out. 

"Some risks are worth taking."

"I could escape."

"I hope you can last out the rest of your sentence. I want this to be your home for those five years. But if you want to leave - then again, that's your choice. I'm not going to keep you against your will. If you leave I won't come looking for you again."

Greg touched both collar and control. Then he picked them up and slipped them into his pocket, his hand shaking slightly. He sat back and continued to eat as if nothing had happened. But Wilson noticed that every now and then he touched that pocket. 

When the show had finished, and the food had gone cold they both stood up and cleaned away the debris. 

"Goodnight, Greg," Wilson said.

Greg transferred his cane to his left hand and held out his right for Wilson to shake. Their hands and eyes met and Greg smiled at him.

"Call me House," he said.


	27. Epilogue

_A few days later_

Nolan looked up as Greg entered his office. After Wilson's phone call to him a few days ago Nolan was prepared for a difficult session. He suspected that Greg himself didn't know why he was doing some of the things he was doing. Integrating his old memories into his new life was proving very difficult for him, as Nolan had thought it would be. His warm greeting to Greg was cut off when he saw Doctor Wilson enter the office, trailing behind Greg. He frowned. He had not invited Wilson to join their sessions. Greg needed to be able to talk in private about his owner. 

"I asked Doctor Wilson to join us today, we have some things to talk about," Greg said. "I'd better warn you though - he doesn't like psychiatrists. He thinks you can see all his little secrets." The latter was said with a smirk in Wilson's direction. Greg seemed to be in a good mood today - more so than he had for the last couple of sessions. 

"It would have been better if you informed me of this earlier, Greg. We could have talked about it." Nolan said mildly. He generally didn't mind patient's friends and families attending sessions, but he _did_ like to be able to adequately prepare for them. And friends and families were a different case than owners.

"I hadn't decided earlier,” Greg answered easily. Then he put a hand up to the collar around his neck and to Nolan's astonishment pulled it off, throwing it onto the desk. "I'm guessing you aren't going to call the police on us if I take this off in here."

Nolan turned to Wilson, inviting his comment. Wilson shrugged. "I told Greg it was his choice whether to wear the thing or not."

Clearly Wilson had been thinking things through on his own. Nolan hadn't expected this move but he was pleased by it. He was also intrigued by Greg's decision to wear the collar on the trip to his office. By Greg's admission his life prior to becoming a slave had been one of reckless choices with little concern for future consequences. Wearing the collar that he hated voluntarily in public seemed to suggest that something had changed. 

He waved them both to the chairs in front of his desk. This was going to be an interesting session.

_A few weeks later_

Cuddy rang the doorbell of Wilson's apartment with some trepidation. Wilson had made it clear that she was here to meet Greg - or House, as he apparently now wanted to be called. When Greg had seen her a few months earlier his response had been to fall to his knees and begin retching. Wilson had assured her that wouldn't happen this time. Even so, it was still going to be strange seeing Greg House, her old college fling, as a slave.

After Greg had run off a few weeks ago - causing Wilson to go chasing off after him - Wilson had taken a week off. He'd told her that Greg was back but they both needed some time to work some things out. She'd raised an eyebrow at that but granted him his leave. When he'd returned Wilson had seemed happier and more settled. He had stopped coming into the hospital early and leaving late and her social life took a nose dive when his dinner invitations to her had dried up. She'd lost out to a slave. 

The door opened and she found herself face to face with Greg House. He was older of course - so was she - but his eyes were the same vivid shade of blue. There was a fine layer of stubble on his chin and his hair was the usual mess that she remembered from college. She stared at him for a moment before realising what was wrong. 

He wasn't wearing a slave collar. 

"Hello, Lisa." He smirked at her, and that was another thing that was familiar. "It's been a long time. You're looking older." 

"Hello, Greg. I could say the same for you." She was thrown off track by his lack of a collar; she'd been prepared to be graciously polite to a slave - but he was like no slave she'd ever seen. Had Wilson managed to get him freed? If so, why hadn't he mentioned it?

"Call me House," he said. "Greg's my secret slave name now." Despite his brazen attitude she could sense that he was tense, nervous. He was carrying a cane in his right hand, and leaning on it heavily. 

She could see the skin around his throat was scarred, marked by an invisible collar, even if one no longer sat there. He'd worn one for a long time.

He noticed where she was looking of course. 

"Wilson's decided it's an optional fashion accessory. I hope you don't mind? Or are you into bondage now?"

What was she going to say? That she _wanted_ him to wear a collar?

"No, of course not." To both the bondage question, and the collar question. 

"Then you might as well come in."

He waved a hand in her direction, for all the world as if he owned the apartment, and she stepped inside. 

Wilson was in the kitchen, and as soon as she entered he stopped what he was doing and greeted her warmly.

"Thanks for coming, Lisa."

Greg hadn't followed her and she took a moment to address her concerns with Wilson.

"He's not wearing a collar!"

"No. House has the choice. He can wear it, or not wear it, as he wants. I'm not keeping a slave, Lisa. Not anymore."

"It's the law. He has to wear it. All slaves have to."

Wilson shrugged. "Sometimes laws should be broken." He held up a hand as she tried to protest. "There's no point arguing. This is what we're doing. If you don't like it, you're free to leave."

She shook her head. It was their funeral she guessed. Greg came up to her, a glass of wine in his hand. 

"Don't worry, Lisa. I'm not escaping tonight." His eyes were serious, despite his words. He gave her the glass, their hands touching slightly as he passed it over. Wilson moved off to attend to something in the oven and Greg leaned in closer, speaking softly. "I know the consequences, for both of us, if I get caught without a collar. The choice is an illusion, but Wilson giving me the choice, that matters. It matters a lot."

She believed him.

Dinner was delicious. From what she could see both men enjoyed cooking, and they shared the responsibilities - squabbling amiably from time to time over procedures and timing. There was no indication in either man's manner that they weren't just two friends, rather than owner and slave. She found herself following Wilson's example and treating House as an old friend from college rather than a slave. She had thought that there brief sexual history might lie heavy between them but then realised that a veritable lifetime had passed - for both of them - since then. They were different people than they had been.

After dinner conversation turned to a difficult case Wilson had encountered at the hospital's free clinic. The patient's symptoms were puzzling and he and Greg traded ideas on diagnosis and possible treatment. Greg's ideas were extreme, but possible, and his suggested treatment course was daring. 

Cuddy was no fool - she realised that the conversation hadn't drifted to this topic by accident, but she couldn't help but be impressed by House's medical knowledge - considering that he'd reportedly spent the last twenty years sweeping floors. He'd been brilliant in college, and from the accounts she'd received of his brief medical career after college he'd specialised in diagnosing the difficult cases no-one else could. Until he'd made a fatal misjudgement and his life had fallen apart. 

With careful management she could use that sort of talent in her hospital. Every year they lost people they could have saved, if they could only have diagnosed them in time. 

It was extremely unlikely that House would ever have a medical license again - the murder conviction and the amount of time spent as a slave were hard hurdles to overcome, and his prior conviction for medical malpractice would carry even more weight. Even without a license, though, he could consult. She could use him.

"Let me know what happens with your patient," she said to Wilson. If House was correct in his diagnosis... well, there were always possibilities. Nothing was impossible.

 

_A few months later_

House stood in the middle of the house, looking around. Wilson's ex-wife number two, Bonnie, was here so he had his collar on. Knowing that it wasn't locked and that the control was deactivated made all the difference. And it was worth it to see how uncomfortable Bonnie was with his presence. She'd been shooting looks between Wilson and him ever since they arrived. Probably wondered why her ex-husband had suddenly acquired a 'personal slave' and just what he got up to with that slave. 

The house had been Wilson's idea. He had declared that he was tired of apartment living and it was time to get a house in the suburbs. Bonnie - the worst realtor in New Jersey according to Wilson - had found them this one. It was the last house in a quiet street, set back away from its neighbours. There were high fences around the yard, and trees obscuring the front of the house. House would be able to go outside whenever he wanted without worrying about prying eyes. Not to mention that he would be able to play the guitar whenever he wanted. The Condo Board would be a thing of the past. 

"Hey, House - come and look at this!" Wilson called out. It turned out that he'd found the laundry. "Look, plenty of room for a dryer and a washing machine. You can do the laundry without being hassled." The current owner's appliances were there and Wilson patted them proudly, as if he'd invented the concept himself. 

House poked at both with his cane, scowling. "Wilson?"

"Yes, House?"

"I hate doing the laundry."

 

_A year later_

Wilson came home to find scans tacked around the walls of their dining room and the table covered in lab results. Two of the hospital’s brightest young doctors were seated at the table and House was pacing around the room. 

"Come on, come on. Think. Give me another reason for these symptoms." House said, fixing an angry gaze on the two youngsters. "Or did you sleep through medical school?"

Cuddy had allowed House to consult on a couple of difficult cases over the last year, and he'd solved both of them. This was the first time that any of the hospital's other doctors had come to their house though. House wasn't wearing the collar so Wilson hoped that they could be trusted to be discreet. 

"Could be cancer," Wilson offered, more for something to say than for any medical reason. 

House rolled his eyes at him. "Says the oncologist."

He turned back to the other doctors and the ddx rolled on without Wilson's further input. After a while House dismissed the pair, sending them back to the hospital. Wilson followed them out to the door.

"Doctor Cuddy asked you to consult on this case?"

Chen smiled wryly. "Well, it was more that House told her that he needed to see us I think. He wanted to go over the scans in person."

"To kick our asses," Riley added sourly. 

"About House..." Wilson said delicately, scratching at his eyebrow with one thumb. Chen spared him having to put it into words.

"Don't worry, Doctor Wilson. Doctor Cuddy briefed us. It's great, what you've done for him." Riley nodded although he still looked resentful. "I can't say he's a pleasure to work with exactly - but it's a learning experience. He sees things that nobody else would see."

When Wilson returned to the living room House was back at the scans, poring over them intently. He looked up as Wilson entered. 

"You're right - it was cancer. Hiding in plain sight." He stood up. "Drive me to the hospital; I need to see this patient in person. They're lying about something."

"House..."

"Don't worry, I'll wear my collar. There's no law about a slave talking to a patient is there?"

"I'll get my coat." 

 

_Four Years later_

Wilson stared at the check in his hands. He'd been given compensation by the State of New Jersey for the loss of his slave. House's twenty five year sentence had expired that morning, and along with that so did Wilson's legal right to own him. The check represented House's 'residual value'. 

House looked over his shoulder. "Is that all? You should appeal. I'm worth a lot more than five hundred bucks."

His collar was gone. For good this time. In his hand he held a small bag that contained the possessions that had been taken from him when he was first incarcerated, and some identification papers issued by the State. Along with that was the paperwork that declared him a free man. He could go anywhere he wanted, and do anything he wanted. 

Wilson shoved the check in his pocket. He'd find a good use for it. Nolan was in touch with a slave abolition group that helped former slaves adapt to life as free people. They could use the money. 

House proudly held up a check of his own. "One hundred dollars to start my new life with."

When they returned home there was a new addition to their driveway.

"I thought you might like it," Wilson said with a grin at House's astonished glance. It was a Repsol motorcycle, a little bit battered, but the mechanic had assured Wilson that it went like a dream. "To celebrate your new life."

House went over to it and touched it reverently. Wilson saw him swallow hard. House had told him how he used to ride a bike. 

"Your license has lapsed of course - so you'll have to take the written test, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to take a refresher course..." Wilson realised that House wasn't listening to him. He was just staring at the bike. Wilson knew why - the bike represented freedom for him.

 

_... and finally_

 

"You'll come back?" Wilson asked as House strapped a bag onto the bike. House had declared that before he decided on his future - whether it was medicine or something else - he wanted to take a few months and just experience the world as a free person. He was taking off on the bike.

"I'll be back," House said, but he didn't meet Wilson's eyes. They both knew that anything could happen on the road - maybe he would find a home, or a purpose, somewhere else. He'd see House again, but there was no guarantee that House would come back home. 

"You'll be careful?" Wilson had been out with House on the bike a couple times. _Being careful_ wasn't House's standard mode of riding.

House rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mom." He jammed the helmet on his head. 

Wilson watched as he drove off down the street. Already his life felt emptier, and the house too big for him.

At the end of the road House paused, looking back over his shoulder. Wilson wondered what the problem was and then House turned around and drove back. He stopped by Wilson and took off his helmet. Their eyes met.

"Come with me."

~ End


End file.
